


The Dangers of a Spell Interrupted

by grungerofgotham



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Blood and Gore (minor), Bodyguard AU, Drama, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, First Time, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Hurt/Comfort, I've been so excited about this for so long, Knight Gerry, M/M, Prince Michael, Rating will change, Romance, Royal Advisor Martin, Seer Jon, Slow Burn, Tags to be added, Trans Annabelle Cane, Trans Character(s), Trans Gerard Keay, Trans Martin Blackwood, Witch Annabelle, trans author, transphobia mentions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:34:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 58,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24506248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grungerofgotham/pseuds/grungerofgotham
Summary: Gerry's been looking for a way to get close to the prince for years now- he needs to uphold his end of the witch's deal.Prince Michael is looking for a way out of a destiny not meant for him.A threat against his life might just be what they need.
Relationships: -(minor/background), Gerard Keay/Michael Shelley, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Michael Shelley & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 122
Kudos: 211





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> its my royalty au babey! Ive been wanting to write this for so long! Anyway Im very excited for yall to read it and as always comments are welcome so don't be shy. I don't have a whole lot of knowledge when it comes to medieval shite so if you wanna correct me on anything feel free... buuut I probably wont change the story at all.  
> Enjoy ;0

Jon looks up at a castle, white stone bright in the midday sun. Nothing would seem to be amiss if it weren’t for the way it glitches and flickers where it stands. He is standing so close that when he looks up, he can’t see its towers and turrets that stretch up to scrape at nonchalant tufts of cloud. The steps are cold beneath his feet, leeching whatever warmth that clings to his skin. The sensation doesn’t match the sun beating down on the rough stone. A static shiver skitters through his bones as he walks into a large cobweb over the main entrance. 

He knows this place; he lives here. He’s eaten and slept and loved and lost in these walls for almost twenty years now. He’d found his purpose and his people in these rooms and halls. But this isn’t right. If he’s here, now, like this, the walls shifting like molten glass, floor stuttering beneath his incorporeal feet, there must be something wrong.

And Jon needs to find out just what that is before it’s over. There are no guards about, no kitchen staff, no lords, or ladies. The castle is quieter than anyone’s ever heard it, and the silence is almost more unnerving than any noise that could break it.

Jon rushes to his quarters, finds the room bare and lifeless. Martin isn’t there. He doesn’t have time to breathe a sigh of relief that this isn’t about him, before he must move on.

He finds Winona’s chambers next, doesn’t bother to knock as he slams through the door. The queen isn’t here. Jon feels a cold rush of fear slither through his veins, down his spine, prickling across his scalp. One left. Where is the prince? Jon runs to his quarters, skidding to a halt, almost losing his balance on the marbled flooring. The door to the room stands wide open, beckoning Jon inward, the gaping maw of some great unknown beast.

Jon takes a moment before stepping inside, fighting past no small amount of trepidation. He doesn’t want to see what’s in there. Doesn’t want to see an empty room. Doesn’t want to see the floor and walls splitting open, swallowing the prince whole. Doesn’t want to see the prince in bed, skin sallow-sick and drooping. Doesn’t want to see him dead on the floor, choking on his last breath. But he must. So he does. 

The room is spotless, stark in its cleanliness. On one wall a group of paintings crowds together, leaving little space for the desk that sits below them, where the prince likes to do his writing. Another is occupied by the bed, the sheets rumpled. In the centre of it all are two figures, one dressed only in a shift of the finest white cotton, the other clad head to toe in shining armour. They’re standing close, still and silent, absent from the world, lost in each other.

Prince Michael stands tall, towering over the other figure, clutching one hand in their chainmail shirt, the other laid against the metal helmet. His gaze upon the other is earnest, eyes pleading, jaw set as concrete. The other is wearing a full suit, having not even removed his helmet to regard the prince. A gloved hand sinks into the soft fabric of the prince’s bedclothes, holding him impossibly closer. If he had the wherewithal to, Jon would be blushing at the palpable intimacy of the scene.

The window beyond them shatters as something flies through it. Jon watches with fascinated horror, gut-wrenching despair, as an arrow thuds into the prince’s shoulder, knocking him back as a scream splits the air around them. The sound is the worst thing that Jon has ever heard, undeniable in its rage. It rips Jon’s heart in two just to hear it and brings tears unbidden to his eyes. 

Michael crumples in the knight’s arms as the jagged tip tears through meat and blood to peak from between the back of his ribs. He doesn’t break his grip on the other’s armour. Instead, he watches, open-mouthed, as the knight paws uselessly at the wound, trying to contain the blood as it soaks the prince’s shirt, choking out ragged, broken sobs and pleas all the while. 

The room is now aflame, through no visible catalyst, and Jon starts to scramble back to the door, smoke crippling his lungs. The knight’s armour begins to glow with ethereal heat, the steel of it warping beneath the flame as the couple sink to the floor, Michael’s lips stained a slick red as he coughs out a final farewell. His hand begins to blister where it’s pressed to the dripping metal helmet. Jon can see it even from this distance, the skin bubbling up, sticking to the alloy, the smell of cooking flesh accompanying the acrid heat that claws at Jon’s heels.

The prince is dead, and the knight spares no thought for his own burning flesh as he clutches the body to his breastplate.

Jon turns to run, staggering toward the chamber doors, gripping the frame as he finally steps over the burning threshold. He coughs, chest seizing violently, and he’s almost surprised that there’s no smoke on his breath, even as the heat fades from his back. 

“Jon? Are you alright? Why aren’t you dressed? It’s about to start,” Martin says, suddenly there and getting a firm handle on Jon’s elbow.

Jon lifts his head in surprise, blinking the sting from his eyes. He glances behind him, into the burning room, only to find it not there. No embracing figures, no flame, no door. In its place, the royal gardens, verdant and luxurious, blooming with the life reserved only for spring and the prince’s nurturing hands. Jon looks back to Martin and his red-rimmed eyes.

“Wh- Martin, have you been crying?” Jon asks, lifting a hand to the other man’s cheek. A glance over him reveals Martin the same as ever, unharmed. Except that his attire is uniformly dark, neatly pressed… like he’s in mourning. Jon can only guess for who, but he’s sure he’d be right. “What’s going on?”

“Jon, I know you’re upset, it’s hit all of us hard, but pretending it didn’t happen isn’t going to make it better, okay? I’m sorry,” Martin says, rubbing Jon’s back, large warm hand a balm for a tragedy that hasn’t happened yet. A tragedy that he can stop.

Jon looks past Martin, to where the casket bobs through a sea of dark cloth, a man not yet dead being carried to an early grave. The queen is there, crumbling against a stone wall as a few personal assistants fight to keep her standing. She’s clutching a handkerchief to her face, and her stuttering cries hurt almost as much as the knight’s scream. Jon takes a deep breath. He knows what he has to do. 

He slaps himself hard across the face and rockets up in bed, gasping for breath that won’t come. He’s immediately taken into two large, warm arms, softer, more real than they ever could have been in the dream. He sags into them, energy sapped.

“I thought you said you probably wouldn’t have another one for weeks?” Martin asks, carding his fingers through Jon’s hair, scratching at his scalp as he struggles to get his shaking under control.

Jon takes a long, calming lungful of Martin’s sleep-warmed scent, wrapping his arms around him and allowing his shoulders to relax. “This was different. This one… _needed_ to be seen.”

“Why?”

Jon looks up, leaning back reluctantly to meet Martin’s concerned gaze. “There’s going to be an attack on the Prince. He won’t survive.”

*

Gerry steps up, stopping just before the throne dais, and ignores the sting of the chainmail digging into his knee as he takes it to the floor, head bowed. A thrill shoots up his spine, and he’s almost surprised that he isn’t vibrating with… with what? There’s so much emotion churning through him he can hardly tell which takes precedent. Excitement? Pride? Anticipation? Fear, even?

He feels the thin blade touching on his right shoulder, his left, the cavernous room silent. “I dub thee knight. Rise, Sir Gerard Keay,” the queen announces, voice ringing out in the reserved hush.

Gerry gets to his feet, suppressing a smile. The queen stands before him, tall and regal, looking for all the world exactly as a queen should. Her eyes are dancing with subdued mirth as Gerry lifts his chin. She leans forward and fixes the insignia of the Crown’s Order to his chest, which he’s fairly sure is glowing with pride. 

Beyond her sits her thrown, imposing in its grandeur atop its raised platform. To its left, another, about half the size, gold like its counterparts, padded red seat vacant. Gerry’s heard the stories about the queen’s first daughter, dead at only three years of age. Swine flu. No one knows if the tales are true, or if there ever even was a young princess, and Gerry had been reluctant to believe them.

But now, here he is, standing in the royal throne room, in the castle itself, surrounded by fellow knights to be, receiving the Order’s insignia, staring at the empty seat in all its tragedy. It’s been years since the events of those rumours, and still, the vacant throne sits beside hers, eery in its pristine shine.

On the other side of the queen’s throne sits the prince’s, occupied by the man himself. Gerry can’t help the little intake of breath he sucks in at the sight of him. He looks as beautiful and radiant as he’d heard, dressed in a richly embroidered white tunic and lavish gold cloak, pinned around his shoulders by a silver chain, no doubt costing more than Gerry has ever earnt in his life. His hair spills in perfectly delicate curls down his shoulders, half obscuring his freckled face.

He slouches wear he sits, elbow propped up on the armrest, cheek pressed against his curled fist, the picture of boredom as he surveys the room. His other hand taps idly in his lap, clenching as he releases the occasional world-weary sigh. His mother steps back from Gerry and shoots a half-hearted glare at him over her shoulder, flicking her wrist in a gesture that tells him to sit up straight.

Gerry watches the interaction as he waits to be dismissed. The prince shifts quick in his seat, back cracking ramrod straight and hands clasping around each other, forcibly relaxed. His gaze flicks from the queen to Gerry, and as their eyes meet, it feels as if Gerry’s life suddenly slots into place.

He’d never had much in life. Not in terms of possessions, or money, or self-worth, or meaningful connections. His mother had never loved him. He’d bet that she didn’t even notice when he ran away and found himself in the woods, knocking on the witch’s door. Even after he’d made the deal and crawled his way to the castle, begging his way into its ranks, he had never really found kinship with any of the others.

It’s no fault of theirs. Gerry is willing to place the blame entirely on his own head, keeping his distance, severing any hesitant connections that the others may have formed with him. He just can’t take the chance of any of them finding him out. Discovering that he wasn’t born a man like them. His chest burns even to think about it, the jagged edges of the scars itching under the breastplate. 

He knows the life he’d strived for would be stripped from him in an instant; his mother had always told him he’d never be accepted. That if he kept up this ‘little plea for attention’, it would come back to bite him. But he knows he’s on the right path now, he just has to keep to himself until he’s fulfilled the witch’s demands. Soon, none of that will matter. His mother’s scalding remarks, his peers’ suspicious glances; it’ll all be in the past.

He’s waited years for this moment. To become a knight. To finally lay eyes upon that which he has sworn to protect. He’d only ever seen him from afar, on the edges of the crowds along royal parade routes, blonde hair shining like so many gold pieces in the sun. To be locking his gaze with those flickering grey eyes feels inevitable and surreal all at once.

Here is the man who will lead him to the life he deserves. To becoming the person he should have been all along. As long as the witch keeps her promise. He just needs to get a little closer to that slim blonde figure, and he’ll be free. The thought is exhilarating, and he can’t help but smirk even as Prince Michael’s eyes continue to fixate on him.

Michael squints at him, brow furrowing, hands clenching in his lap. Gerry does his best to school his face into a smooth mask of neutrality. “You’ve done well,” says the queen as she steps back, “I have faith in you, Knight.”

Gerry beats down a smile as he bows and turns to leave, flicking one last glance over his shoulder at the prince’s narrowed eyes as he does. Yes, everything’s coming together.

*

Michael taps his fingers on the marble table as the meeting progresses. He’s been sitting down for hours now, and he’s itching to get outside and tend to his garden. Of course, they have gardeners who would take care of his lilies and roses as if their lives depended on it for him, but watching them grow isn’t the same when it wasn’t his hands that presses the soil and pruned the branches.

The knighting ceremony had taken the majority of the morning. Michael doesn’t understand why he even had to be there; he wasn’t needed. The only thing that had done anything to break up the boredom was that one especially handsome knight who had smirked at him, looking right into him with those dark eyes. Michael will think about _that_ later when he’s alone in his chambers. The behaviour had been a little suspicious, he’ll be the first to admit, but it isn’t often that he sees someone quite so handsome around his age. He swears at times his mother fills the castle with old lords and ladies deliberately, forbidding him to go into town without an escort, just to spite him.

There’s an urgent-sounding knock at the door and Michael hardly suppresses the groan rising in his throat as he’s broken out of his reverie. Of course someone would find a way to prolong this useless meeting even longer.

His mother pauses in her all-important monologue about trade routes and resources and says, “Come in.”

The door all but slams open, revealing a large round man with short dark hair and glasses. Beside him is a thin, dark-skinned man, prematurely grey-streaked hair pulled into a haphazard knot at the nape of his neck. Michael smiles to see his friends for the first time today, but it doesn’t last, as both of them look more hassled and sleep-deprived than usual.

Martin takes a deep breath, his usually gentle brown eyes dark with concern that is uncharacteristic in its intensity. “Your Highness, I’m so sorry to interrupt, but-.”

Jon straightens up beside him and interrupts, “There’s going to be an attack on the prince.”

The room is filled with a stunned silence for a long moment before the queen nods at her accountant, who wastes no time in gathering his binders and scrolls and fleeing the room. She then gestures for the seer and advisor to take a seat. Michael sighs; this meeting will never end.

Jon all but slumps into the chair, dark skin pale in the light streaming in through the windows. The bags under his eyes are deeper than usual, and a sharp stab of worry cuts through Michael’s boredom and annoyance. It doesn’t sit right with him to see his friend in such pain. Martin sits next to him, clasping his hand briefly on the other man’s forearm.

Jon has seen so much in service of the crown. He’s prevented countless attacks and misfortunes, but it’s never taken such a visible toll on him, not like this. There have even been plenty of instances where Jon had gained a vital piece of intel that had him unusually chipper for days on end afterward.

“Jonathan? Can you explain?” the queen says, not unkindly.

“Sorry, I, uh… it’s a lot, I’ll try.” Jon sits up in his chair and clears his throat. “I saw… in Mi- the prince’s chambers, the prince himself, and another. A knight, standing alone in the centre of the room.”

Michael lifts his eyes to look at Jon. Another man? He quietly schools his face into something more appropriate for being told he’s under threat, all the while his interest peaked by the concept of being alone with another in the near future. If he could just get out of this damn castle and see the world, he might not feel like this, might not be so damn lonely. Of course, he has Jon and Martin. His friends. But… oh, he doesn’t know. How could he? Kept in this fortress his whole life, it’s not like he’s developed the emotional tools to articulate the particular species of loneliness that gnaws at his bones.

Jon’s eyes flit away from him and the queen for a moment, sketching to the side. Michael cocks his head as he watches the seer clench and unclench his fists atop the table. Jon’s isn’t telling them something. “Then, uh, an arrow shot in through the window, and the prince was struck in the chest. He… he was killed.”

Michael paws at his chest, the gesture not going unnoticed. Martin inclines his head toward him a little, an acknowledgement of the dire situation. Finally, it begins to dawn on the prince. This isn’t some silly premonition about what he might have for lunch in two months-time. This is his death, laid before him, stark in its simplicity. His boredom departs him in a rush, leaving him shaken and not the least bit concerned.

“Then the room was engulfed in flames, and the knight perished as well, trying to save him. Then… a funeral. In the garden.”

Even as his mind is occupied by his upcoming demise and whatever Jon might be holding back, it’s jarring to hear that he would be laid to rest in his garden. He wonders whose idea it would’ve been, wants to thank them for knowing him, at least a little. He looks away from the two men across the table, trying his best to blink the tears away discreetly.

“Hm. Do you know who will stage the attack? Who the knight is?” The queen asks, voice hard and unwavering.

Jon shakes his head, face screwing up with effort, no doubt trying to See beyond his limits. “No, Your Majesty, I- I’m so sorry.”

“That’s quite alright, Jon. If you see anything else, don’t hesitate.”

He nods, inclining his head to stare at the table. Martin watches his partner for a moment, unsure if he might continue, before turning to the queen. “I’m sorry, this one has really taken its toll. What’s important to remember is that while Jon sees the past, present, and future, the future is never set in stone. This doesn’t mean, in any way, that the prince will die.”

Michael’s chest loosens a little, and he hears his mother release a quiet breath beside him. 

“But it does mean that we will have to start taking precautions to ensure that this version of the future _isn’t_ the one that comes to pass,” Martin explains. He flips open a ledger in front of him, shuffling through some pieces of parchment and handing them over to the queen. “I’ve prepared some ideas on how we might go about doing that, as you know, I’ll never come to you with a problem and no solution.” Martin starts to elaborate, growing calmer as he settles into his role as Royal Advisor.

The queen takes the pages and flicks through them. “Increased security, window detail, extra turrets, confinement to the castle, personal detail…” She mutters under her breath.

“Confinement?” Michael exclaims, shooting up from his seat. “Personal detail? No, that is too much.”

“Michael,” his mother says sternly, “Your life is in danger. We will be taking serious measures to prevent this attack.” 

“Confinement to the castle is hardly effective, though, is it? I mean, Jon said the arrow came through a window, for gods’ sake! And personal detail? That knight in the room with me certainly didn’t help much!” Michael protests.

“Then you’ll move to less revealing chambers and have _two_ guards on you at all times. Is that what you would prefer?” the queen says, jaw clenching, raising an eyebrow.

Michael weighs up his options. He can either live free for another month and die at the hands of some unseen archer. Or he can spend a month in his room. He sighs and settles back down to his chair. “Fine, I’ll take the personal detail. But I still want to go outside,” he grumbles.

She purses her lips. “I’ll think about it. Leave us for a moment, won’t you? Take Jon down to the kitchens, have Ingrid make you both some tea.”

He sighs and stands, moving around the table to the door, gesturing for Jon to walk out before him, narrowing his eyes at his mother. Jon’s face grows red as he disobeys conduct by moving ahead of the prince, and Michael slams the door behind them.

Michael loops his arm through Jon’s, awkward due to the substantial height difference between them, and tugs him close as they walk. “What didn’t you tell her?” he asks, whispering low into Jon’s ear.

Jon looks down and away, green eyes furtive. “I, uh, don’t know what you’re talking about. I tell her everything, she’s my queen.”

Michael rolls his eyes. “Yeah, whatever. But _you_ are my friend, and _you_ were holding something back. Tell me.”

“Your highness, I-,” Jon starts.

“Jon, what have I told you about that ‘your majesty’ crap when she’s not around?”

Jon sighs as they find their way to the kitchen and Michael requests two cups of tea. Ingrid lays down her hand of cards with a curtsy and a playful wink before putting a kettle on to boil. “Fine. It’s not like it’s a life-changing detail or anything…”

They take a seat at a small table and Michael leans forward expectantly. “So…?”

He sighs again, scrubbing a hand over his tired face. “You and the knight. You were… intimate.”

Michael’s eyes widen. No wonder he’d kept this from the queen. “Jon… did you have a sex dream about me?”

“No! God, no! Not like that,” He says, face reddening as he drops it into his hands.

“Okay, okay, sorry. But what about the dream made you think that?” Michael asks, thanking Ingrid as she places two steaming teacups in front of them.

“It was just… Okay. I went into your chambers, and the bedsheets were all mussed. And the two of you were standing in front of that big window of yours, and you were like, caressing his face, but he was wearing a helmet.”

“I was caressing his helmet?” Michael asks, raising a disbelieving eyebrow. “Wow. How romantic.”

Jon waves away the interruption, “When you were shot, he screamed. It was one of the worst noises I’ve ever heard, honestly. And he tried to help you, but with the flames, the hot metal of his armour just burnt you more,” Jon says, voice solemn as he stares pensively into his cup.

Michael frowns and leans forward, pitching his voice into a conspiratorial whisper. “Jon… Am I going to die a virgin?”

Jon chokes on his sip of tea, and laughs big and loud, earning a few surprised glances from across the room. He shakes his head, “No, I, uh… the way you were with him. I get the feeling the answer is a solid ‘no’. Also, you were practically naked.”

Michael smiles and wiggles his eyebrows, drinking his tea as Jon chuckles again. “Oh, if I get a personal guard, can I choose which one?”

Jon rolls his eyes. “No, I imagine the choice will be Winona’s. And Martin’s, to a lesser extent.”

“No, but that’s perfect. I choose one, I tell you, you tell Martin, Martin tells Mum, and bam,” Michael gesticulates wildly before slamming his hand down on the table, “I have a hot guard all to myself.”

Jon huffs another small laugh. “You know, I don’t see how that’s a bad idea, actually. Why, do you have your eye on anyone?”

Michael rolls his head to the side, pretending to think, “Well… I did spot a pretty handsome young man at the knighting ceremony this morning.”

“Mhm,” Jon hums, clearly just humouring him, “What’s his name?”

“Didn’t catch it, but there was only like five others there, so it can’t be that hard. He had long black hair and dark eyes. Come on you know _everything_ , you can find him,” Michael says.

“I do not know everything, actually. And I highly doubt they’ll hire someone so freshly knighted,” Jon returns.

“But I want them to,” Michael pouts, looking at Jon imploringly. “Can’t you like… pretend to have a vision that says he’s the one who will save me?” 

He grins and shakes his head. “God, you royals are always so entitled, aren’t you?” Michael sticks his tongue out at him. The smile grows for a brief moment before it sours. “I am sorry about all of this, Michael. The threat, the confinement. As snobby as you lot are, you don’t deserve this.”

Michael hums, expression sobering. It isn’t like he’d asked for this life anyway.

He doesn’t mean to sound ungrateful, he really doesn’t. But more than that he wants to not have to carry this kingdom once his mother passes. It just isn’t what he was made for, giving orders, planning attacks and trades and treaties and budgets. He’d much rather sit and read in his garden. He’d much rather never have even seen the castle. He’d rather work on a small piece of land and settle down with a nice housecat. With the minimum wage and standard of living rising under his mother’s rule, he’s sure he’d be comfortable. He’s never looked good in a crown anyway.

“Jon,” he starts softly, causing the other man to look up from his tea. “I never wanted this. Any of it.”

Jon nods. “I never wanted this either,” he gestures to his eyes. “Heavy is the head that wears the crown, huh?”

Michael laughs, but the sound isn’t one of humour. He raises his cup and taps it against Jon’s. Heavy is the head indeed.

A thought flashes into Michael’s mind. What if… he removed the crown? Yes, what if he never became king, stopped training for it, stopped learning war strategies and financing, and just… left. What if… he ran away? No one would have to worry whether he’d be assassinated every other week, his mother would stop fussing over his unprincely manner. They’d find someone else to be the heir, someone of non-royal lineage, someone who truly deserved it. Like Martin, oh, but he’d make an excellent ruler.

He’d have to be very clever about it, especially with the security piling on. He’ll have to plan it down to every second. His mind is made. Yes. He’ll leave, and everything will be better. Jon watches the look of a hatching idea dawn across Michael’s face and says nothing, only observes as he sips his tea.

The only question is… How?

*


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A vision is faked, a discovery is made, Gerry meets his charge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaah its been so long since i posted the first chapter I'm so excited for this to continue!! Anyway I'm taking a lot of liberties with Jon's eye-related abilities here. Also just a heads up- this fic is going to be very self-indulgent so brace yourselves for some unrealistic plot points babey
> 
> Content warnings for: transphobic/homophobic implications (not major)
> 
> Enjoy ;0

Gerry sits alone in the room for a long while before anything happens. When he’d received the message to report here, he’d been nervous, to say the least. Did he do something wrong? Did he overstep by looking at the prince so much in the knighting ceremony? There’s no end to the questions spinning around in his mind as he waits for… for what? The messenger had not told him why he was summoned.

The room is just about as lavish as you’d expect. Beautiful paintings adorn the walls, trimmed in expertly crafted frames, depicting roiling seas and epic mounted battles. The chair that Gerry sits in is soft enough to be uncomfortable, sinking so far in he’s afraid he’s making a permanent impression. The table he’s sitting at is long and sleek, and the designs in it almost hurt to look at, to think about the hours spent carving into the dark wood.

The wait isn’t long by any means, but it certainly feels like it is. By the time three figures file into the room, Gerry’s neck has started to ache from peering around at all the expensive decorations, the part of his mind that is still stuck in that ungodly hovel his mother calls home yearning to reach out and take so he can afford dinner tonight.

The Queen enters first, and Gerry scrambles to his feet to bow in her direction. When he straightens, she nods in return and gestures to the seat he had sprung from. He stammers back down as she sits across from him. The other two, Gerry doesn’t recognise. One is dark-skinned, with tired eyes and fidgeting hands. The other is tall and heavy, round glasses perched on a small nose. They aren’t wearing any clothing that would suggest their rank or role, nothing denoting their status as lords or royals or kitchen staff or foreigners. Gerry can’t be sure, so he inclines his head respectfully to both as they sit down. 

They return the greeting as the bespectacled one takes a seat beside the queen and places a thick ledger on the table, drumming his short fingers against the worn leather.

The queen clears her throat. “Sir Keay. Do you know why you are here?”

Gerry sits up straighter- if that were even possible- and looks to the others for a moment. He has no idea if this is a trick question or not. He doesn’t know if he’s done something good or bad or if he’s been found out, and- oh _god_ what if he’s been found out?

“No, Your Majesty. The messenger told me to sit here and wait,” Gerry says, in as firm a voice as possible. He doesn’t want to give them a reason to think he’s guilty of whatever they’re accusing him of.

The queen nods, once, and says nothing more. Gerry glances at the others. The one to her right is eyeing him up and down, shuffling through a few pieces of parchment in the ledger. The tired one is watching the other, glancing at Gerry periodically. The look is equally appraising and tinged with suspicion. Gerry hopes the sweat beading at his temples isn’t too visible.

The large man leans over to the queen, cupping his hand around his mouth so that he can speak into her ear. Gerry thinks he hears the words ‘too new’ and ‘inexperienced.’ The gears in Gerry’s head start to spin faster. Those aren’t words associated with wrongdoing and punishment. That sounds more like an insufficient performance review. Gerry listens, intent on learning more, doing his best to look like he isn’t eavesdropping. If this is an opportunity rather than a sentencing, he needs to show them that he’s up to the task. So he waits, donning his most patient expression as the man and the queen whisper back and forth between themselves.

The tired man is still watching him with his quiet green gaze. The intermittent eye contact is beginning to itch under Gerry’s skin. The man in the middle leans back from the queen and turns to the other, whispering into his ear for a moment. He doesn’t look away from Gerry.

After another few stretching minutes of watching the secretive act play out across from him, a primal instinct begins to kick in. Fight or flight. He doesn’t _want_ to do either. If he ruins any opportunities to protect the prince, his stake in the witch’s deal will surely be lost. He can’t fight, not literally, of course; if he pulled his sword now, he wouldn’t live to see the sunrise tomorrow. But perhaps he can fight this growing surge of panic for as long as they continue to disregard him.

He loses the battle in a humiliatingly slim margin of time. “I’m sorry, Your Highness,” Gerry interrupts, “Why am I here?”

All three of them turn at the interruption and Gerry feels like a brown rabbit in a snowy field, a hawk circling above. Nowhere to hide, claws bearing down. Gerry digs his fingers into the armrests of the chair and keeps his back straight, no shrinking back now.

The queen’s gaze finally softens on a sigh and she leans forward. “We apologise. There is a big decision to be made here. Have you any knowledge of the current situation?”

Gerry looks between the three once more. No face lends any clue as to what’s going on. “I… wasn’t aware there was a situation.”

The queen inclines her head to the man in the middle, who nods back, and flips his file open to a particular page. He glances up at Gerry before speaking. “Sir Gerard Keay, I am Martin Blackwood, I am the royal advisor to the queen. Are you aware there’s been a threat made against the Prince? Well… more or less.” He adds the last part under his breath.

Gerry stifles a gasp and shakes his head. If there’s been a threat made against the prince, he must require protection, right? Perhaps this is what he’s here for… some sort of personal guard situation. Oh, but that would be perfect. Nothing in his life has prepared him for the absolute serendipity of this moment. This is exactly where he needs to be.

If there’s an attack on the prince… and Gerry is the one to stop it… What more could the witch want? That’s what she had asked of him, right? ‘Protect the prince- From what? You’ll know- only then can you collect your reward’. Gerry fights to keep the smile from his face as Martin explains further. Looking gleeful at the prospect of the prince being threatened is surely a one-way ticket to somewhere Gerry does not want to be.

“We don’t have as much information about the attack as we would like, but as it stands, the prince needs increased security. Do you understand?” Martin says.

Gerry nods. “I am at your disposal.”

Martin looks at the queen, and she raises an eyebrow. Shit, did he say the wrong thing?

“Sir, we need someone trustworthy to guard him at all times. He needs to be kept inside as much as possible. He needs to be kept safe,” Martin emphasises.

Gerry realises with a start that they are putting serious consideration into handing him this position. He absorbs what Martin tells him, leaning forward against the table to show his eagerness. Not too far, though. If he acts too eager, they may suspect him of some suspicious motivations. It’s a fine line he’s walking here.

“Now. We understand that you’ve only been knighted quite recently?” Martin says.

“Yes.”

“However, your actions in the raid last year, to rally your fellow trainees to aid in the fight did not go unnoticed. We’ve found the initiative you showed to b-.”

He’s cut off when the man beside him grunts sharply, and doubles in on himself, pressing a fist to his temple. Martin abandons his line of thought to place his hands gently on the other man’s hunched shoulder with a startled ‘Jon?’ The action is quick and easy, practiced like they’ve known each other through thick and thin, completely, intimately. Gerry’s brow furrows. Mary had always told him that men would be executed for being together in such ways. They must be great friends, that’s all, he tells himself, even as the familiar sting of longing and envy courses through him.

The queen looks over too, concern drawing her eyebrows together as Jon uncurls slowly, breathing laboured. He tugs on Martin’s shirt sleeve so that he leans down, and the tired man whispers into his ear. Through his curiosity, Gerry starts to feel a little put off by this whole whispering business. Martin glances to Gerry as Jon speaks, eyes rounding out a little behind his large glasses. He pulls away from Jon, departing with a final squeeze to his shoulder, and whispers to the queen.

The queen’s eyebrows raise toward her hairline, and she looks at Gerry with renewed interest, before nodding to Martin. It isn’t like Gerry doesn’t appreciate the mystery of a little whisper game, but he would’ve thought the Crown would be a little more well-oiled and organised than this.

Martin slips a scroll from out of a bag he has slung over his shoulder and unties the ribbon from around it. “Sir Gerard Keay, will you swear to protect the prince with your life?”

“Yes,” Gerry says. 

Jon’s eyes narrow at him, scrutinizing. The queen stares him down as well, and Gerry intuits that now would be a bad time to break eye contact, so he waits until she tears her gaze away and gestures to Martin. Jon sighs, shoulders dropping as he stands, bowing briefly to the queen and leaving without fanfare.

Martin watches him leave for a second before he slides the scroll and a quill across the table, uncapping a bottle of ink beside it. “Sign this, and you will be protecting the prince from any harm until further notice.”

Gerry picks up the quill while skimming the document. His eyes catch on a particular phrase near the bottom, the print fine enough that Gerry has to lean close to read it: ‘if the prince dies, or is harmed in a way that results in death or severe injury while in your care, you will be executed, by law of the Crown.’

He gulps as he reads it. It isn’t like he wasn’t expecting those terms, this is a huge deal after all, guarding the prince, the queen’s only son. He wonders for a moment if this is all worth it. Is protecting the prince really something that he would risk his life for? He doesn’t know the guy; he could be a total prick. In fact, it’s likely- he’s a _royal_. But he’d made a deal, and he intends to collect.

He runs his eyes once more over the page, noticing that he is to stay within sight of the prince even as he sleeps. Shit, this must have been some threat if some random knight like Gerry gets to sleep in the prince’s chambers. 

He decides, dipping the nib into the inkwell before taking it to the parchment. His signature is shaky as he scrawls it on the neat line. He’d only just learnt to read and write a few years ago, and there hadn’t been ample opportunity between training and sleeping to practice. He tries not to blush as he slides the parchment back over.

Martin scrutinizes it for a long moment. “Alright. Report to the prince’s quarters immediately. You will be notified of any changes as they come.”

Gerry stands, a bolt of nerves shivering through his gut. He’s going to meet the prince, like, _soon_. It’s almost too much to handle. He bows deeply to the queen, holding it for only a few short seconds before turning to move around the table.

“Oh, Sir Keay?” the queen says. 

Gerry looks back in surprise. “Yes?”

“If he isn’t there, check the gardens,” she smiles.

Gerry nods and bows again, before leaving the room with a barely contained spring in his step.

*

Jon closes the door behind him and breathes a sigh of relief. It worked; he can relax now. Michael is waiting for him outside. When the prince sees him step through the door, his eyes widen, and he starts to bounce on the spot. He taps his excited hands together before looping his arm through Jon’s. 

“Did they buy it?” Michael asks, biting back an expectant smile.

Jon sighs as he begins to lead Michael back to his chambers. “Yes, they bought it. You know, I should’ve joined the Royal Theatre Association, with the act I put on in there.”

Michael unhooks his arm and dances around on the spot. “Jon, thank you so much! You know I really appreciate it; I know it isn’t easy for you, lying to Martin. And if you want, you can tell him now. The contract has probably already signed.”

Jon can’t help but smile at his antics. He forgets just how young and full of life the prince is sometimes. “Yeah, yeah, come on. You have to get back to your quarters before he gets there. I don’t know if I’ll tell Martin, though… I don’t want him to think that I don’t trust him, you know?”

“You’re so sweet to each other, Jon, I’m almost jealous,” Michael says, then takes a moment to grip his arm and jostle it around, “Oh, Jon, I’m so excited! Do you think he’ll like me? He’s so handsome, he’s probably out of my league…”

“Need I remind you that you are the actual prince? I think it might literally be a crime to not like you,” Jon explains, watching fondly as the big wistful smile grows on the young man’s face.

“Yeah, you’re right, I’m a catch.”

Jon laughs, “Wow. Who would’ve thought the prince would be such a slut.”

Michael’s mouth drops open with a dramatic gasp, and he lays a fluttering hand on his chest. “How could you? Anyway, it’s called being touch-starved, Jon, I thought you knew everything?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Your Highness,” Jon snarks as they arrive at Michael’s quarters. “This is your stop, my liege.”

Jon turns to leave, and Michael catches his arm. Jon looks back in surprise.

“Jon…” Michael says, chewing on his lip for a moment. “What would I do without you?”

A flood of warmth spills through Jon’s chest as he looks at the man in front of him. Years they’ve been friends, since Jon had arrived at the castle at fourteen and Michael had been the most spoiled seven-year-old in the kingdom. He’d been hired as a seer from the start but given his age and relative inability to make friends with any of the older residents, babysitting duty had been shucked onto him time and again. If you’d have told him that the snot-nosed brat he’d had to look after would become his best friend, as good as a brother to him, he wouldn’t have believed it.

He smiles at Michael. “You would be having a real hard time getting laid.”

Michael laughs, and reels Jon in for a tight hug, before slipping away into his room. Jon heads back to his chambers and settles down on the floor to clear his mind. He makes himself comfortable, shifting until he finds a spot that lets him relax before breathing deep and closing his eyes, letting the sounds of the castle around him shift and swell and ebb away until he’s alone in his mind.

He isn’t looking for anything. He rarely is when he meditates, and just at this moment, he doesn’t want anything to come to him. He wants to feel the rise and fall of his chest and nothing else until he opens his eyes in an hour. Distantly, he registers the echo and movement of Martin entering the room. He pushes away the torrent of thoughts that come with him, his love for the man, the guilt at manipulating him; he wants to be free of distraction, he wants to float in this empty space for a while, he wants-

 _Oh, gods damn it,_ he thinks as a vision begins to filter to the forefront of his mind. It’s the knight from earlier, Gerard. He’s walking down the hall that Jon himself had followed just moments ago. The scene is crisp with the clarity that only comes with events occurring at present. It doesn’t swim and wobble like the premonition of the other night; it’s as solid as if Jon were watching it with his own eyes.

He watches as the young knight adjusts his leather armour around him, fiddling with straps and buckles, breathing laboured beyond what is reasonable for the brisk pace he strides. Jon recognises his nerves. They’re understandable, of course: Gerard’s come from an incredibly low-income family, or so his records show, made a life for himself struggling his way into the Order’s ranks, and now his first mission as a knight is to protect the prince from all harm on punishment of death. Of course he’d be anxious.

Jon wonders why he’s being shown this. To be fair- it isn’t like he hasn’t seen anything useless before. He once had a premonition that consisted solely of Martin reading a book for half an hour. But worthless visions are few and far between, and with the current state of things, the stress on the castle and Crown, he’d hope that his powers would choose to show him something that could be of use.

He focuses in on the scene, watching as the knight marches through the halls, needlessly tucking his hair out of his face. Gradually, a voice begins to flicker in at the edges. The knight’s voice, muffled at first, becoming clearer.

_‘…sleeping in his quarters…’_

_‘… hope they don’t find out…’_

A surge of panic rushes through Jon as he hears the thoughts, full of deceit, paranoia, and anxiety. The knight is hiding something, something he perceives as taboo, unforgivable even. Jon wonders for a moment if he’s made a grave mistake, placed the prince in harm's way, let the fox into the henhouse… He pushes further- he needs to know more.

The vision swims before him and disperses before another takes its place, the texture of it grainy and old, like faded charcoal on parchment. It’s Gerard again, this time in what Jon can only assume are communal washrooms. The room is empty save for the knight standing in one of the stalls, leaning over the water basin as he scoops water over his face. The room is dimly lit by only a few burning candles as if the knight had waited much too long for the stalls to empty before he took his turn.

The man’s form is slim and toned, what’s visible of his back above the stall door is tanned and muscled. He turns around, flipping his dark, streaming hair out of his face. The knight rubs at his chest, a look of conflict darting across his features. A noise crackles, fading in with harsh, buzzing static and sharpening into the shrill screech of an aging mother.

“You are a sick young woman,” the disembodied voice spits, and the vision darkens for a moment alongside the knight’s expression. “They won’t accept you. Not here, not there. Face it, _daughter_ , you’re alone.”

Jon follows the movement of the knight’s fingers and finds that there are scars on his chest. At first glance, Jon takes them to be from combat, at the second he recognises them for what they are, sees that they are the same as Martin’s- the marks of a self-made man, the wounds of a different kind of war. Jon jerks back in surprise and regret and falls back against the carpet of his and Martin’s shared chambers. He shouldn’t have seen that; that was private, it wasn’t for his eyes. Oh, his stupid fucking powers never know when to stay out of where they don’t belong, do they?

“Jon? Are you alright?” Martin says, kneeling by his side. “Did you see something?”

Jon gasps and sits up, blinking rapidly to clear his head of the scene. “Yes, actually, uh…”

“What?” Martin presses. “What is it?”

Jon rubs his temple, “Martin, I, uh, I don’t know if I should tell you. It really isn’t either of our business.”

“Jon, I respect whatever decision you’d like to make about this, but we are in the middle of a crisis here. I don’t think holding back information is advisable, no matter how small,” Martin says, running his hand up and down Jon’s back.

Jon contemplates that for a moment, remembers the way he’d faked a premonition, not even an hour ago, to get Michael his hot bodyguard. He’s deceived Martin enough today; he can’t bear to keep anything else from him. He sighs, “Keay is like you.”

“Wh- Gerard Keay? The knight? What do you mean he’s like me?” Martin says, frowning.

Jon reaches up to put a hand on Martin’s chest, skimming his fingers along where he knows the scars lie, where he’s run his lips numerous times. He hopes Martin catches his meaning.

“Oh.” Martin sits back with a thump. “You’re right, that is none of our business. Gods… I feel terrible now. Why did you see that? Why not something relevant?”

“I don’t know, Martin! I saw him walking to the prince’s chambers and he had like… an air of deceit around him, I thought I’d made a mistake pushing to get him the personal guard position, so I followed the deceit and saw that, I didn’t mean to!”

“What do you mean pushing to get the position? You said you saw him saving Michael’s life!” Martin says, brow furrowing.

“I lied! I’m sorry! I… okay, let me explain. Michael asked me to because he saw Keay at the knighting ceremony and thought he was hot,” Jon clarifies.

Martin blinks owlishly at him for a second before chuckling. He drops his face into his hands with an exasperated sigh. “Okay, well, if that’s what it takes to get him some protection, I guess it’ll have to do. Why not let the kid have some fun?”

Jon lets a small smile grow on his face. “You should’ve seen how excited he was,” Jon says.

“I mean if this is what he wants… he’s had a tough time lately, we’ve both seen how he’s struggling with his duties. He’s never really had a chance to be a kid, has he?” Martin says, scratching his chin as the smile fades. There’s a moment of silence, where Jon doesn’t need to use his powers to know they’re thinking the same thing. Then Martin clears his throat, “You said Keay was deceitful, does he… is he out?”

Jon shakes his head, “I don’t think so, I believe he thinks he won’t be accepted. His mother, I… I don’t think she was good to him.”

“Oh…” Martin says. “Maybe he doesn’t know how much things have changed since Winona took the throne.”

Jon nods. “Let’s keep this between us, alright? He doesn’t want anyone to know, that’s his choice…” he pauses, “I just wish he knew it’d be alright.”

Martin hums in agreement and idly scratches his chest. 

*

Michael can hardly contain an excited squeal as Jon leaves him in his room. He’s going to meet the handsome knight. And they’re going to fall in love. And it’s going to be so magical and- Wow, he’s getting _so_ ahead of himself. He struggles to take in a few deep, calming breathes, in through the nose, out through the mouth, though it’s kind of difficult with the ridiculous smile still tugging at his lips.

As his heart settles, so does his mood, relaxing into something more reasonable as the possible outcomes at what he’s done push through to the front his mind. He’s conned his mother into giving him a handsome young knight to guard him from all harm. What could be the downfalls of that? Well, there are a few he realises. The knight could die trying to save him. The knight could fail to save him, given his inexperience. The knight might be an asshole and hate Michael. There’s much that could go wrong with this.

And of course, having a personal guard at all is incredibly inconvenient for his plan to run away. How the hell is he supposed to sneak out with a pair of eyes on him all the time? No matter how dark and mysterious and alluring those eyes might be… it just isn’t worth it to sacrifice his shot at freedom. But he hadn’t seen any possible way of getting out of having a guard, so at least he’s making the best of a shitty situation. Who knows, maybe something wonderful could come of this… maybe this knight could make his existence a little less tedious.

So yes, having a personal knight is bad for Michael’s plan to run away, but that doesn’t mean he can’t have a little fun with it. Another thrill of excitement shoots down Michael’s spine as he remembers that the knight is going to be sleeping in his quarters! Okay, okay, he needs to calm down, he’s being childish.

Michael picks a book off his shelf and settles down on his bed, allowing himself a quick check in his vanity to make sure his hair is sitting just right. Before long, there’s a knock at the door, and Michael pulls in a few slow breathes through the rush of nerves that ploughs strong through his gut, beating down a smile.

“Come in,” he says, as neutral as he can muster. He’s got to remain calm; the knight has to think he’s cool and aloof if he’s going to have any chance of getting him to fall in love with him.

The door opens silently on its hinges and the knight steps into his room. He lacks the impressive amount of shining metal armour he’d worn during the ceremony, instead wearing plain, dark brown leather strapped around his arms and chest. His sword is sheathed at his waist and bobs behind him as he bows. “Your Highness. I am Sir Gerard Keay, and I have been ordered to protect you at any cost until further notice,” his voice is clipped and careful. The precision of the words does nothing to hide the slight shake of the delivery.

He straightens, and Michael takes a moment to admire him fully before answering. He’s shorter than the prince, with a sturdy frame and strong build. His right-hand rests against the hilt of his sword, tan skin flexing around the worn handle. The other fidgets, almost imperceptible, at his side. His face betrays no such anxiety, dark eyes waiting coolly for any kind of response.

Michael discards the book that’s been lying open and forgotten in his lap and scoots to the edge of the bed. It seems that with all the excitement about getting a handsome bodyguard, he’d put absolutely no thought into how their first meeting would actually go, and as a result, Michael is unfairly flustered. “Uh, I’m Michael,” he says awkwardly. 

So much for calm and collected.

The quiet façade on Gerard’s face cracks a little, the corner of his mouth twitching up. “I… know who you are. Your Highness.”

Michael opens his mouth, then closes it again. He’s even more beautiful when he tries not to smile. “Of course,” he mumbles.

The knight just stands there for a moment longer, seeming to be at as much of a loss as Michael before he finally speaks again. “Do you mind if I check your windows, Your Highness?”

Michael nods. “Go ahead,” he says, though he has no idea what exactly he might be checking them for. He watches as Gerard moves to the small windows along his north wall, running his hands along the sills and seams, tugging at the locks before moving on to the next. He presses lightly against the panes of the wall-length window on the east side, and Michael tries not to be too indecent about the way he watches the muscles move beneath his shirt.

Michael pulls himself away from ogling for a moment to ask, “So… what are you looking for?”

“Means of entry… or exit,” he replies. His skin and hair are highlighted gold in the sun that streams in through the windows, his long lashes visible even from this distance, casting long shadows across his cheeks as his brown eyes melt like golden syrup in the light.

Of course he had to be hot and competent, Michael grouses. No way he’s getting out those windows now. He’ll have to think of something else. “That isn’t necessary,” he tries to reason.

“All due respect, Your Highness,” he starts, turning back, “Her Majesty the Queen says otherwise.”

Michael huffs a sigh. “She’s so dramatic,” he says under his breath.

“I’m sorry, Your Highness, did you say something?” the knight says, moving back to stand by the door.

Michael shakes his head. “No… Do you really think I’m going to try and escape?” Michael asks, chuckling a little as if the idea is just so absurd.

The knight frowns, like he thinks this might be a trick question. “I don’t know. But if you do, Her Majesty will have my head. Quite literally.”

Michael feels his eyes widen, eyebrows rocketing up to his hairline. “You’ll be put to death?” he asks incredulously. He had no idea his mother had been so serious about this. She’s never done this when it was her life at stake! But then, _she_ probably wasn’t planning an escape attempt.

The knight nods but Michael barely registers it, he’s so lost in thought. This changes things. Michael won’t be able to escape; won’t allow himself to try, not really. Not when an innocent man’s life is at stake. He couldn’t live with himself if someone so young was killed because of his selfish actions. He’s going to have to think of something else.

He looks at Gerard, at the firm set of his jaw as his eyes wander the room, clocking its details and filing them away for later. Yes, a change of plans is definitely in order. If he can’t escape without this man dying as a result… and he can’t stay without locking himself into a life that he hates… he’ll have to find a way to keep the knight from harm when he leaves. An idea begins to peck its way out of its shell in his mind, and a smile spreads slow over his face.

He’ll bring the knight with him! Better yet, he’ll convince the knight to steal him away. He’ll seduce this beautiful beefcake and get him to sneak them both out of the castle. They’ll run away together and have the most wonderful life where Michael won’t be king, and no one will be killed over it. Oh, this plan is perfect!

“Your Highness?”

Michael blinks back to himself as his scheming is interrupted. He realises that he’d been smiling (probably rather creepily) at the knight for a long moment. He shakes his head, biting his lip. If this plan is going to work, it has to be put into action immediately. Michael’s going to have to get his flirting game together.

“I’m sorry, I… I’m a bit of a daydreamer. You know, we are going to be spending a lot of time together, Knight… Alone… I think we’re going to become good friends,” he says, leaning up against a bedpost, resting his chin in his hand. “And if we are to become closer, I think you should call me Michael.”

He watches, having a difficult time keeping his own composure as the knight’s face reddens gradually as he speaks, eyes rounding out as Michael pours more and more flirt into his words. The knight stutters and Michael smiles. Maybe this is going to be easier than he thought.

“In that case… Michael,” Gerard says, waiting for a moment to gauge the prince’s reaction to the informal moniker. Michael hums and nods for him to go on. “You should call me Gerry. I’ve always preferred it.” The blush on his face never fades, but the growing confidence in his voice is undeniably sexy.

Michael can’t help it when he feels his face begin to heat up. What is he supposed to do now? All he knows about flirting comes from books and what little PDA Martin and Jon indulged in from time to time. If he’s going to pull this off, he’s going to have to start reading up.

But with a blush that sweet, Michael thinks his life being threatened is perhaps the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

Let the seduction of Gerard Keay begin.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it! Feel free to leave comments and kudos they are very appreciated :)) Also you can come talk to me on Tumblr @theroswellcrashsite <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon watches a soap opera, more or less

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooh rating change
> 
> Content warning: minor panic attack, implied sexual content, minor violence (I guess?)
> 
> Enjoy :O

The next couple of weeks don’t exactly go according to plan… for either of them. Gerry hadn’t been expecting this. What had he thought this detail would involve? Standing in the corner of a room bigger than his childhood home, watching the prince do royalty things from sunrise to sunset? Watch him learn his kingly duties, sitting prim and proper in over-serious meetings for hours on end? Jump in front of a flying arrow if it came down to it?

Yeah, that’s about what his expectations boiled down to. None of which included the prince being such a _handful_. You’d think someone who’s life has been threatened would be keen on staying put for longer than a few minutes, but no. Gerry has spent the last two weeks being pulled around from the kitchens to the greenhouse to the library to the gardens to the prince’s quarters with little to no warning each time.

And the number of times he’s just run off without a word, leaving Gerry behind? Well, at least he isn’t bored.

Gerry watches as Michael leans over the table and says something to Jon, too low to hear. He’s standing by the doorway to the kitchens, having just been dragged here by Michael under the pretense of getting lunch for the both of them. He’d been rather hungry, so Gerry had agreed easily. Michael had stepped inside the warm, low-ceilinged room, held up a hand and told Gerry to stay by the door, much to the protest of his rumbling stomach.

Michael now waves Gerry over to the table and pats the space on the bench beside him. Gerry takes the seat and gets a full plate of food pushed into his hands for his troubles. Jon clears his throat and Gerry looks up, startled, thinking he may have just overstepped a boundary that he hadn’t know was there, but the gaze that meets his is tired yet pleasant.

“So, Gerard… How are you finding your charge? Is he behaving himself?” Jon asks, shooting a wry smile in Michael’s direction. Michael sticks his tongue out at the other man.

Gerry looks between the two, unsure what the appropriate response could be. The truth is that trying to keep Michael safe and in one spot has been an actual living nightmare, but he doesn’t want to say that in front of the prince, and much less to someone that has a direct line to the queen. He needs to keep this job, anyway. But he can’t lie, can he? That would be worse, right? Lying to the prince and a man who can quite literally see anything he wishes to? So, he compromises. “Oh, uh, it has its challenges. Nothing I can’t handle.”

Jon scoffs. “No need to sugar coat it. Anyone my age and older has had to babysit this little shit at one point or another. We all know he’s a menace.”

Michael scowls at him, doing a bad job at hiding a smile. “Jon, you are so rude, I ought to have your head,” and he taps Gerry’s arm, telling him to eat up.

Jon ignores him. “Would you like to hear some horror stories from his youth?”

Gerry glances between them once more, Michael shaking his head fervently, Jon raising an expectant eyebrow. He turns to Jon, “Anything to pass the time,” and starts to pick at the plate in front of him.

“Great,” Jon smiles and begins to regale Gerry with tales of a young Michael conducting all sorts of shenanigans, an adolescent Jon chasing after him. Michael’s protests begin to drop away as they both get caught in the yarn. Jon is a wonderful storyteller, infusing his words with intrigue and humour, and before Gerry knows what’s happened, half an hour has passed by.

“You wouldn’t believe how much it cost to have those windows replaced, Gerard, it made my peasant-class heart hurt to see the equivalent of my grandmother’s life-savings shattered by a ten-year-old,” Jon says, chuckling a little. Gerry laughs along and turns to his side to see the indignant blush on Michael’s face, only to find him absent.

Gerry glances around the room with dawning horror. He looks back to Jon, terrified that he’s lost the prince in front of one of the Crown’s most important members. This is surely the end for him.

Jon just shrugs. “Sorry, he asked me to. He hasn’t been gone for long, he’ll probably be in the garden. By the roses most likely.”

Gerry nods, taking the mercy without question and rushing out to the gardens. Michael is where Jon had said he’d be, crouching behind a thick cropping of rose bushes, gold curls just visible over the abundance of delicate petals. At first, Gerry thinks that he’s pulling a half-hearted attempt at hiding until he rounds the hedge and finds that Michael is peering between the branches, gaze bright with focus. 

“Alright, Your Highness, you’ve had your fun, can we please go back inside, now?” Gerry says, leaning down to take Michael’s arm.

“Michael,” the prince corrects automatically. He wraps a hand in Gerry’s shirt sleeve and tugs him down to his level, pointing in between the leaves. “Look, they’re making friends.”

Gerry looks along the length of Michael’s finger and sees a frog on a leaf, sitting calm and still, lazy nictating membranes sliding over its big watchful eyes. A few leaves below it a snail is undulating its slimy way over one of the thicker branches. Gerry looks back at Michael’s fixed stare and sighs, thumps down onto the damp grass beside him.

“Michael…” Gerry says, “I don’t want to step out of line or anything, but… every second that you’re out of my sight is a second that the queen might find out and have me executed. I’m not particularly keen on dying just yet.”

Michael tears his eyes away from the frog and looks at Gerry. He purses his lips, and a crease appears between his brows. “I- I’m sorry. I’m sure you wouldn’t, though, I mean… I haven’t been hurt or anything, and I haven’t actually run away.”

Gerry sighs again, and stands up, taking Michael with him. “I think you underestimate just how much your mother cares for you.”

Michael stops trying to run away after that… for all of 48 hours. The attempts don’t exactly escalate after that, but they do become increasingly obvious, and Gerry begins to realise that Michael isn’t trying to escape, not really. There’s no way the crown prince could think that pillow-with-a-wig ploy will actually work, Gerry’s suspicions confirmed when he finds Michael down in the kitchens, sending him a shit-eating grin as he enters. 

“Your Highness,” Gerry says, out of breath and exhausted as he takes a seat across from him. Michael pushes a mug of tea toward him, and he draws it closer with a grateful nod. “Again, I don’t mean any disrespect, but can you please save your escapades for the morning? Some of us need to sleep.”

“Maybe if you learnt to call me Michael like I asked, Knight,” he says, propping his face in his hand, cheek squishing up and eyes crinkling as he smiles. “You needn’t be so formal when we’re alone,” he winks.

That’s another thing: the incessant flirting. Gerry doesn’t know how to handle it. He didn’t know handling it was even an option- he’d been so sure that two men were not allowed to be together. But now: Michael, young, handsome, insistent, tirelessly chipping away at his resolve. Well, at least that explains why Jon and Martin had been so close before. He should’ve known to take everything Mary had told him with a grain of salt.

Even if he had known- he has no experience with getting any attention of this kind from anyone, and now he’s getting it from the _prince?_ It’s unbearable, and Gerry is spending almost as much energy on keeping his shit together as he is chasing the prince around. The feather-light touches over his arm, the lip-biting, the winking, the compliments. It’s all too much. And don’t even get him started on the time Michael brushed a lock of hair out of Gerry’s face for him.

“Michael. You’ve had me running in circles today. I know you’re bored, but I’m _tired_. Can we please go to bed?” Gerry begs.

Michael starts to look remorseful as Gerry speaks, biting his lip and scratching at a loose splinter on the table before he perks up at the mention of bed. “Oh? Go to bed you say? Gerry, I thought you’d never ask!” He says sweetly, batting his eyelashes.

Gerry huffs a laugh, too tired to put any real humour in it. “Michael…”

He sighs. “You’re right, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be making this harder for you,” he says, averting his eyes and chewing on his lip.

As for Michael, well… he loves the way Gerry blushes. He acts all stoic and unaffected, but the red in his cheeks and the hidden tremor in his voice betrays just how much it gets to him. Michael doesn’t mean to be cruel or anything. And it isn’t as if he’s advertising something that he isn’t selling; it’s just that Gerry is refusing to buy it.

He’d give anything for Gerry to flirt back, give him _something_ to let him know the plan is working. If he weren’t the prince, none of this would even be a problem. Gerry wouldn’t be afraid of the queen; he would flirt back, and they would live happily ever after and everything would be lovely and magical. Although Michael being the prince plays a rather significant role in their meeting, so maybe Michael should count his blessings.

All that is beside the point. The plan is to seduce Gerry and have him steal him away. How is he supposed to do that if Gerry continues to be so utterly resistant to his advances? Even when they’re alone, chances of being caught or interrupted practically zero, it’s like trying to bed a brick wall. A very handsome brick wall that blushes so pretty when he winks at it.

“Gerry,” Michael whispers one night, peering over the edge of his bed to where Gerry sleeps on a cot a couple of metres away.

Gerry rolls over, grunting as he blinks awake. He rockets up in his cot, looking around the room for anything amiss.

“Oh, no, nothing’s wrong, my shiny knight. I was just wondering… you don’t have to sleep on that if you don’t want. There’s plenty of room up here,” Michael says, patting the bed beside him. “It’s a big bed… wouldn’t even touch if you didn’t want to.”

It’s a risky move, far more forward than anything he’s tried thus far, but the more comfortable he can get Gerry to be around him, the easier it’ll be to get him to fall in love with him. It doesn’t even need to go the whole nine yards. It just needs to get far enough that Gerry’s will to do what Michael wants outweighs his loyalty to the Crown.

When Gerry wakes up to a sound not too far from him, his first thought is that it must be Michael sneaking out again and for fuck’s sake, can’t he get just one full night of sleep? His second thought, upon seeing Michael sitting up, unmoving in bed, is that this is it, the attack has finally come, he needs to get ready, this is what he’s been waiting for.

So to find that none of that is happening, and instead Michael is just trying to get him into his bed, is at once relieving, annoying, and nerve-wracking. He can’t deny he would like to slip in beside the prince, hold him close, feel his warmth, breathe in his sweet perfume. But he also knows himself, and to get that close to the prince would spell the end of his self-control as he knows it, and Michael would find out his secret, and dead prince or not, Gerry would be executed.

“No, Michael, I’m fine down here. Thanks,” Gerry says. He hopes the long pause wasn’t too suspicious. He doesn’t see the look of disappointment on Michael’s face- he’s already bid him a good night and rolled over.

Jon watches the whole thing like a soap opera. It’s quite entertaining. The attraction between the two has been clear from the start; the way Michael takes hold of Gerry’s arm when being escorted somewhere, the way Gerry can’t seem to resist putting a hand on the small of Michael’s back as he ushers him through a doorway.

The growing fondness is something else though. Of course, Michael had requested the knight because he was handsome, but recently, with growing frequency, when Michael speaks of him it’s accompanied by wistful sighs and dreamy smiles. It’d be a bit pathetic if it weren’t for the way the knight has taken to watching the prince with quiet admiration when he thinks no one is looking.

“Jon,” Michael whines.

“Yes, My Liege?” Jon says, sipping at his tea and flipping through a book. They’re sitting at their usual table in the kitchens, with Gerry standing a bit away at the door. Jon always feels a little bad when Michael tells him to wait by the door, but the knight seems not to care too much, even looking a little relieved when Jon can take over the babysitting for even a brief moment.

Michael glares at the excessively formal title, pouting as he plants his chin in his palm. “It’s taking too long!”

“What is?” Jon pretends not to know.

“He’s resisting my advances,” Michael mumbles, glancing over at Gerry.

Jon hums, “Can’t imagine why.”

“What do you mean?” Michael frowns.

“Michael, if he were caught with you, Her Majesty would throw the mother of all tantrums, and you would never see your beloved knight again. He probably values his life more than getting laid. Unlike some people,” Jon explains, lowering his voice. Gerry is far enough away that he wouldn’t hear them even at a regular volume, but one can never be too careful.

Of course, Jon knows the real reason why Gerry is likely refusing to engage with Michael. If he’s as intent on keeping the fact that he’s transgender as under wraps as it appears, it’d be rather hard to be intimate with someone without them finding out. Not for the first time, he wishes he could let Gerry know that it’s okay to be himself now, that whatever his mother told him was wrong. However, letting on that he knows could do more harm than good, especially considering that it would be hard to have a private word with him given the whole reason he’s here is to look after the prince.

“I suppose you’re right,” Michael says, flicking his finger against his porcelain cup, watching mournfully as his nail plinks against the rim. “I would protect him, though… from mum. She wouldn’t execute him if I threw a big enough fit, right?”

Jon laughs and shakes his head. That knight has no idea what he’s gotten himself into.

“Maybe I need to try a different angle,” Michael murmurs, getting a familiar mischievous glint in his eye.

“Oh lord,” Jon says, “Don’t be too rough with him, though, okay?”

Michael smiles, biting his lip and wiggling his eyebrows.

*

Gerry is standing outside of Michael’s bathroom, listening to the rhythmic splash of water filling the tub within. He’s leaning against the wall beside the door resting ajar, tapping his fingers against the hilt of his sword, thinking very, _very_ hard about not thinking about Michael being naked in there. 

He needs to turn his mind elsewhere. Anywhere else. He needs to stay alert, watch the windows. He sees something tap against one of the panes and tenses for a moment, grip tightening at his belt. It’s just a bee, buzzing around a little before hovering off down to the gardens. He hears Michael in the bathroom, humming a lilting tune over the top of running water and shuffling fabric. Nope, not thinking about that. 

He thinks instead about how much things have changed in the last few weeks. Michael’s grown bolder with his advances. A traitorous thrill runs up his spine at the memory of Michael inviting him into his bed not a few days ago. However innocent the gesture, they both knew what the true intent behind it was.

What’s more troubling is that the longer Michael keeps it up, the harder it gets to resist him. Gerry can’t deny- never has or will- Michael is beautiful. Gold hair curling perfect and bright, soft grey eyes, kind even as they blink so coy and self-assured. Everything about him is so different from his mother- no dark hair, no sharp features, no rigid posture. Except for his height. He’s tall and slim, just like the queen. Gerry can’t help but think on what it might be like to have those long legs slung around his waist, over his shoulders even, and _no,_ do _not_ think about that.

It isn’t just that anymore, though. Sure, that had been the primary reason behind the initial allure, but it’s grown. Michael is sweet, despite trying to run away every other day and consequently putting Gerry in potentially mortal danger. He’s always made a point of making sure Gerry’s comfortable, eating enough, cleaning enough, sleeping enough. Yes, he wakes him up at ungodly hours, runs off while he’s distracted eating, but Gerry’s never had anyone care so much about his well-being before. It’s nice having a… friend? Acquaintance? He isn’t sure what to call it.

“Gerry,” Michael says, dragging out the name long and loud.

“Yes, Your Highness?” Gerry replies, leaning toward the gap in the door to hear him better.

“Gerry,” Michael huffs, annoyed. “What did I tell you about that shit?”

Gerry stifles a smile. “Did you need something, Michael?”

“Yes, actually,” he says haughtily, “I am dissatisfied with your job performance. I don’t think you could properly protect me from danger all the way out there.”

Gerry feels his face redden at the invitation. He can’t think of a viable excuse to refuse it, so he takes a deep breath and nudges the door further open before stepping inside. The room is about half as big as the main chamber, with a beautiful stained-glass window allowing multi-coloured light to play across the tiled floor. There’s a large tub in the centre, from which a cloud of steam is twisting up to pool against the ceiling.

Michael is leaning against the edge of the bath, chin propped up on his crossed forearms. His hair is wet, curls lost to the weight of it as it streams down over his shoulders. Eyelashes dark with water, he bats them at Gerry, over the top as always. “Care to join me? The water’s lovely.”

“Uh,” Gerry gets out. His brain is broken, and he’s fairly sure there’s smoke coming out of his ears. He tries again, “Michael. How could I protect you if I were naked?”

Michael pouts, laying his cheek against his arm. “But it’s so lonely in here.”

Gerry sighs, shaking his head and trying his best not to look directly at him as he sits down beside the tub. Michael smiles and leans back, body obscured by sudsy water from the ribs down.

“Gerry,” Michael says, trailing a finger along the edge between them. “Would you do something for me?”

The knight looks up into his bright grey eyes. “What might that be?”

Michael looks down and away, a flush climbing up his chest to his face. It might be what he’s about to say, but he could blame it on the hot bath. He brings a cloth out of the water. “Could you get my back? I can’t reach.”

The ridiculousness of the request rips a laugh out of Gerry, and he doesn’t have time to stifle it before Michael’s blush deepens. “What?” he asks, “These arms aren’t as long as they look!”

Gerry bites back another laugh. This is a terrible idea for myriad reasons, not the least of which is all the things it could lead to, all the images that Gerry won’t be able to get out of his head if he touches Michael how he wants to. But Gerry’s nothing if not self-destructive, so he nods, and holds a hand out for the cloth.

Michael’s eyebrows shoot up, as if he hadn’t expected Gerry to obey, and presses the cloth into Gerry’s hand with no hesitation.

“Well?” Gerry says, “Turn around.”

Michael does so, sweeping his hair over one shoulder. Gerry dunks the cloth into the bath and flattens it to Michael’s spine, absorbs the shiver that passes through him despite the damp heat around them. He drags it over Michael’s freckled back and shoulders, torturing himself with the prolonged contact. Eventually, Michael pivots around so he can watch Gerry over his shoulder, lips parted as his eyes track the movement of Gerry’s hand over his flushed skin.

Gerry avoids his eyes, instead running the cloth over Michael’s shoulder, down his arm, back up. Gerry steadies himself against the edge of the tub with one hand, biting his lip hard enough to distract him from the prince’s intense gaze. Finally, the dam breaks, and Michael stops Gerry’s hand as it travels along his collarbone. Gerry’s breath catches, and he watches raptly as Michael brings the hand to his face, laying his gentle lips against it. 

He kisses the palm, lips soft and warm, warmer than they have any right to be, and Gerry stifles a gasp as the slow heat of arousal pools low in his gut. Michael smiles against his hand, eyes fluttering shut for a moment as he draws his mouth up to Gerry’s fingers, pressing another lingering kiss the pad of his index finger.

Michael presses tender kisses against each finger in turn, watching Gerry with uncharacteristically careful eyes, gauging his reaction. Gerry is stuck. He can’t do anything but stare, dazed and helpless. Michael hums and draws Gerry’s thumb into his mouth to the first knuckle. Gerry can’t repress the whine that claws itself from his throat at that, the feel of Michael’s tongue moving and sucking against his skin.

Gerry wants so much. He wants to shuck off his armour, strip off his shirt and underclothes until he’s naked. Wants to join Michael in the hot water, press him against the edge and hear all the pretty noises he might make if Gerry got his mouth on him. Wants to take those long, gentle fingers and press them between his legs until he comes. But he can’t. He just can’t.

Michael slips Gerry’s thumb out of his mouth, scraping his teeth along the wet skin as he goes. His grip tightens around Gerry’s wrist, not too hard, and he guides his hand down, trailing over the pulse in his throat, the dip of his collarbone. Gerry stretches his fingers, and they brush over Michael’s nipple as he moves down. Michael makes a small, wanting noise, quiet and surprised as his mouth slips open. Finally, Gerry’s fingers dip into the water, skimming against Michael’s ribs, making him shiver, and Michael stops.

Gerry looks up into his eyes, pupils wide and dark, cheeks flushed bright. Gerry knows he must look the same, must be feeling the same, if the ache between his legs is anything to go by.

“What do you want, Gerry?” Michael says, voice a shadow of a whisper.

Gerry blinks and takes a few deep, stabilising breaths. He wishes Michael hadn’t asked that. He wishes Michael had just kept slipping his hand down, wishes he hadn’t stopped. Now Gerry has to confront what he’s doing. And he’s glad Michael asked because otherwise, this would have been a slippery slope with Gerry’s damnation waiting at the bottom. He’s glad he asked, and he wants the prince even more for it- that he wouldn’t take without asking. But _fuck_ , he wishes he hadn’t asked.

“Not this,” Gerry chokes out, voice crackling and hoarse, “Not now.”

Michael’s face falls, a mixture of disappointment and confusion as he lets go of Gerry’s hand. The flush on his cheeks spreads until his face is pink up to his hairline. “Uh, s-sorry, so sorry, I- I thought… I thought we were on the same page; I didn’t mean t-.”

“Michael, it’s not… it’s not you, it’s me. I just… I can’t,” Gerry says, wanting so badly to take it back, to have his hands back on Michael. He feels terrible, seeing the confidence seep away from Michael’s eyes as he avoids Gerry’s gaze. He wouldn’t have dreamed that Michael put this much stock into them.

Michael nods but doesn’t answer, turning so that his hair falls over his red face, and sinks lower into the water.

“All due respect, Michael, but… what do _you_ want?” Gerry asks softly.

Michael looks at him, submerged up to his nose, and pushes himself up just a little. His lips are tight, and his eyes are cautious, losing the embarrassment of seconds ago but not quite clearing of the uncertainty. “I want to make the best of a shitty situation.”

Gerry doesn’t look away from him, feels like what honesty he can muster is the least Michael deserves. He nods, opens his mouth to say something, closes it, nods again. Michael drags himself closer by his grip on the edge of the tub.

“You can talk to me, Gerry,” Michael says. “I know what Mum says, I know about Jon’s visions, I know the contract you signed, but. We can be friends, right? I understand you might be scared of what might happen if we…” he trails off and quirks an eyebrow. Gerry feels a smile tug at his lips. “But I would protect you. I would protect you.”

Michael leans close, trailing a wet hand up Gerry’s neck, laying it warm against his jaw. “If you still say you don’t want me, I’ll understand, I won’t push… But I’ll know that it’s a lie.” He edges closer still, and Gerry wants nothing more than to close the gap. He can feel his breath drifting across his lips as Michael looks down into his eyes, asking. 

“Michael…” Gerry starts, not knowing where he’ll stop. “I don’t know how to explain. I- I _want_ ,” he says, hand coming up to skim along Michael’s wrist, brow furrowing as he tries to find the words, “But I can’t. Not yet.”

Michael sighs, not bothering to hide his disappointment, and moves, not away, but to the side, where he presses a chaste kiss to Gerry’s cheek. Gerry feels him inhale against him, “It’s a shame that you won’t join me… you could really use a bath,” he sits back and waves a hand in front of his wrinkled nose. 

Gerry laughs and ducks his head, glad that the moment is over. He smiles at Michael and the prince smiles back, sinking back into the water. “Gerry this has been lovely… But if you would return to your post now, I have something that I need to take care of.”

Gerry frowns, unsure of what he means, “Wh-?”

Michael widens his eyes and delivers several theatrical winks before Gerry gets the message. “Oh, right,” he blushes, and scrambles to his feet, closing the door behind him.

*

Michael is wallowing. Just a little. Not enough for Gerry to notice, but enough that he loses most of his appetite and spends an extra few hours in bed. Of course, Gerry not being into him was a possibility from the start, Michael just forgot to consider it and was there for blind-sided by it when he made his big move. Gerry had even seemed into it right up until that last second. But if he says he doesn’t want it, Michael’s got to respect that. He just hopes Gerry will in return respect his need to mope about the rejection for the foreseeable future.

It’s fine, though, Michael’s handling it _just fine_. It’s not like Gerry had been repulsed and hates him forever now. They left it on a very hopeful note, all things considered. ‘Not yet’ Gerry had said. There’s hope. Maybe Michael should just ease off on the sexual approach, put a pin in it for now and try something a little softer… more romantic.

What would a handsome knight like Gerry think of as romantic? Gifts? Maybe Michael could shower him with treats and earn his affections that way?

Michael is getting ready for bed, stripping out of his stiff tunic and pants, undoing dozens of buttons and ties until he can slip on a shift and flip back the covers. Gerry is across the room, unfurling his bedroll across the cot and shrugging out of his leather armour.

Michael flops down across his bed and watches the other man. “Gerry, what do you like?” He won’t admit it, but that whole scene in the bathroom dealt a heavy blow to his confidence, and his voice shakes a little as he starts to tread back into flirting territory.

Gerry looks up, brows tugging together. “What do you mean?”

“Like chocolate, or fruit, or what?” Michael says, twirling a lock of hair around his finger.

Gerry’s frown deepens, and Michael has to bite down on his lip to keep from smiling too wide. He’s quite cute when he’s confused. “I’m sorry, I have no idea what we’re talking about?”

“Well,” Michael shifts so that his legs hang over the edge of the bed. “I was thinking... because you take such good care of me, I should take care of you, too.”

“You… want to reward me?” Gerry asks, cocking his head to the side.

“Yeah! That’s one way of putting it, I suppose. Now, I don’t know if you’re aware but I am a prince, so… I can get you whatever you want,” Michael says, standing up and leaning against a bedpost.

The knight’s face does something strange at this, like he’s just had a life-changing idea. Michael frowns for a second, dismisses the odd moment and ploughs onward. He’s got him on the hook, now he has to sell him on the idea.

“Chocolate, flowers.”

“Michael,” Gerry says, something odd in his voice.

“Fine clothing, gold.”

“Michael,” A little more urgent.

“Jewellery, fine paintings-.”

“Michael!” Gerry shouts, and before Michael can turn to see just what he’s so animated about, he’s shoved against a wall, the thud of his back hitting the stone behind him distracting him from the loud sound of shattering glass.

Gerry’s body is pressed against his, chest to thigh. He’s stripped of his armour, wearing only a thin shirt and pants. Michael isn’t wearing anything but a shift, and the heat of Gerry’s body is something that he could get _very_ used to. He melts into the warmth of the other man, resting his hands on Gerry’s shoulders as the knight’s push at the front of Michael’s chest.

“Oh, so you’ve come around, have you?” Michael purrs, splaying his fingers over Gerry’s shoulders.

Gerry frowns, breathing hard, “What? No, you idiot, look!” He points behind him, the warm line of him turning away from Michael. The prince follows the gesture and sees an arrow stuck into the floor, flame curling around the end of it, shivering out in the cold chamber. Hidden around a corner as they are, Michael can’t see where the projectile had entered through the east side, but he can see the shards of glass sprayed across the floor.

Michael blinks. A flaming arrow, like from Jon’s visions. Oh. Oh _fuck_ , Michael nearly just _died_. He blinks again, trying to get his brain to kick into gear, to think anything besides ‘I could’ve died, Gerry could’ve died, we could’ve died, shit, fuck.’

“Michael?” he hears, the sound floating to him like he’s underwater. He feels movement, but it doesn’t seem real, not like the panic coursing through his veins. Gerry shakes him again, “Michael! Michael, you’re not breathing! Come on, breathe!” he shouts.

Michael shudders back to himself and gasps, lungs burning as they try to compensate for the time he’d held his breath. He feels cool hands against his warm face, bringing him back down. “Hey, it’s alright, you’re alive, you’re fine,” Gerry is saying, stroking his thumb along his cheekbone.

The prince focuses hard on Gerry’s eyes, following the calm rise and fall of the other man’s chest until finally, his lungs stop trying to choke him. “You saved me,” he croaks out.

Gerry laughs, and Michael follows suit. He could have died just now, _Gerry_ could have died. It’s hysterical. “Yeah, Michael, I’m kind of here for that specifically.”

Michael grips hard at his shoulders, feeling tears begin to claw at the back of his eyes. He doesn’t want to cry, not in front of Gerry. He tries to swallow them down, but they well up anyway, and he curses at himself for letting himself get so distracted.

“Hey,” Gerry says, drawing Michael away from the wall so he can wrap his arms around him. Michael leans into him, soaking in the warmth of the knight’s strong body and tightening his arms around his back. Gerry runs his hands up and down his spine, and Michael shakes as he feels his breath skim along the back of his neck in the shape of words. He can’t be sure, but he thinks he feels ‘thank god’ muttered against his skin.

“You could’ve gotten hurt, Gerry,” Michael says, voice small and hiccuping.

Gerry laughs again. “Yeah, I’m here for that, too.”

Michael pulls back and kisses him, not sparing a single thought to the consequences, body dictated by the adrenaline in his veins. Gerry melts into it, and Michael doesn’t even have the wherewithal to be surprised. After a long, wonderful moment of Gerry’s chapped lips sliding against his, the knight pulls back with a gasp.

“No. You aren’t thinking clearly,” Gerry says, putting a hand on Michael’s chest, and some distance between them.

Michael doesn’t have the time to be frustrated -hardly even registers that he’d initiated the contact through the dying panic- as he’s pulled out of the room by his hand. Gerry shoves at the guard asleep outside and he jerks awake with a snort. Gerry glares at him, “Go alert the towers, there’s been an attack.”

The guard’s eyes blow wide and he takes off at a run until Gerry and Michael are alone once again. Michael looks down at their joined hands, and Gerry follows his gaze. He doesn’t let go, but when Michael takes a step forward to bridge the gap between them, Gerry takes one back. He’s disappointed for a moment, until Gerry squeezes his hand.

“Who do you want to go to?” Gerry asks, eyes filled with a tender concern.

Michael squeezes his hand back and shakily tells him to take him to Jon.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry I checked: rich people had taps in the old times.  
> Also whoops, I made Michael kind of Web-aligned :/ ... foreshadowing mayhaps??  
> For the longest time, the idea for this fic existed as three words in my notes app: 'princemichael forbidden bathtime'
> 
> Leave comments and kudos if you so wish :0


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The family meets, Jon sticks his nose where it doesn’t belong, Gerry’s job isn’t done yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the wonderful comments so far!
> 
> Enjoy :0

Jon sits clasping Martin’s hand roughly in his own. Michael sits across from them, turned and hunched toward the meagre flame flickering in the hearth, swamped in an old cloak of Martin’s, shivering despite the heat of the room. Gerry is beside him, hands fastened together in his lap since they’d arrived, watching the prince with unwavering attention. It’s tense, to say the least. Michael hasn’t spoken in a while, and no one can figure out how to break the silence.

Ingrid bustles in and out of the room, joined by another of her kitchen staff, pressing hot cups of tea into everyone’s hands and insisting they at least eat _something_ , lining up several platters of cheese, bread, and meat. Martin takes a bit of cheese, chews on it carefully so as not to disturb the fragile tension.

Michael sighs and the sound is like an earthquake in the stillness. Gerry leans forward to try and peer around at his face. Michael gives him a tight-lipped smile in return, blinking perhaps a little too fast before gazing back down into his tea. The concern for the unusually silent prince is rolling off the knight in waves, Jon wouldn’t even need to use his powers to sense the knight’s tangible feelings for the prince.

They’d been holding hands when Gerry had knocked on his chamber door. Michael’s grip on him had been firm and white-knuckled until Jon had greeted them with bleary eyes. Michael had let go of the knight to fling himself into the seer’s unprepared arms, crumpling his tall frame down to lay his head on his shoulder. Jon had stumbled a little, hands coming up instinctively to wrap around his slim frame, and Martin had steadied them from behind, directing a stern ‘what happened?’ at Gerry.

A flaming arrow had flown through the window, missing both the knight and the prince, and failed to ignite the room. Jon can’t be sure; he hasn’t seen anything about the attack since that first premonition… but it doesn’t feel right. The vision had felt… big, inescapable. The night’s events feel small, insignificant in the face of the perceived threat. If Jon were a gambling man, he’d bet it isn’t over. But he doesn’t know how to broach the subject of this being just the beginning, not when Michael is still wiping away tears with wobbling hands.

After what feels like years of waiting, the queen arrives, robes billowing around her as she bustles in and envelopes Michael in her arms, squeezing her son close, kissing his face, muttering a litany of relieved apologies. In a trembling voice, thick with not-very-well-contained tears, the prince tries to joke, “Mum, please, it was just a little assassination attempt.” It doesn’t work to ease the tension, Michael hiccupping as a fresh wave of tears spill down his cheeks. Jon sees Gerry’s hands clench as he bites his lip.

The queen pulls back, clasping the man’s face in her hands. “Are you hurt?” She says, running her thumbs along his cheekbones. She glances at the knight beside her son, eyes narrowing, quick and almost imperceptible, before she fixes her gaze back on the prince.

He shakes his head, and she releases him after a long second so he can sink back down to his seat. Gerry’s hand twitches up toward the prince, an aborted motion that ends in him scratching his eyebrow and letting his hand fall back to his lap. Michael wipes at his face one last time and picks up his tea.

“Martin,” The queen says, regaining her composure. “What’s the situation?”

Martin clears his throat, lets go of Jon’s hand to clasp his own together atop the table. “We’ve sent a few scouting parties out, looking for the archer responsible. Nothing’s been found yet. Another group will be sent out come morning to ask around for witnesses of any off behaviour.”

The queen nods, releases a strained breath. “Well, whatever we must do to find them, we will. In the meantime, I’m just glad we’ve weathered the threat and come out the other side unscathed.”

Martin agrees, “At least it’s over.”

At that, Michael glances up from his tea, eyes wide. The expression would be odd to anyone unacquainted with Michael’s schemes of late. He looks almost upset at the thought that this might be over, and of course, Jon knows why. No more threat- no more handsome knight bodyguard. However his face does betray a deeper upset than Jon would have expected. Apparently, Jon wasn’t privy to just how attached Michael had grown to the other man. He eyes the knight beside him. Though his face reveals no such emotion, his jaw clenches, and his knuckles are white as bone where his fingers tighten in the fabric of his pants.

It’s almost sweet, how upset they are at the prospect of losing each other. Jon wishes he didn’t have good news for them.

The queen looks over the group, smile only just reaching her tired eyes. Michael starts to school his face into something more neutral as she turns toward him and Gerry, not doing a good job of it at all. 

“Sir Keay,” she starts, no doubt about to dismiss him. Michael’s gaze darts between her and Gerry before settling on Jon, eyebrows pinched.

“I’m not so sure,” Jon blurts. The room stills once more. Michael’s eyebrows shoot up and Gerry’s head jerks up to look at him. Both are trying not to let the hope show in their eyes.

The queen snaps back to him, concerned and disbelieving. “Not so sure? About what, Jon?”

Martin leans close on his other side, warm breath skirting along his ear, “Jon, did you see something else?”

Jon doesn’t acknowledge him, holding eye contact with the queen instead, keeping his gaze from the other two across the table. “No, I haven’t seen anything else, but… from what we know of the attack tonight, and what I saw first, it doesn’t feel the same. I don’t know how to explain it, it doesn’t feel extreme enough, I-.”

“Not extreme enough?” The queen says, her voice dropping dangerously low, “My son was nearly killed tonight, Jonathan, and you’re telling me it wasn’t extreme?”

Martin straightens in the chair beside him. Jon has to diffuse this quick, or Martin will start defending him against the queen of all people, then they’ll both be in deep water.

“I apologise, Your Highness,” Jon stammers. Gods, he needs to be more careful with his words, “I didn’t mean that what happened tonight wasn’t terrible, but what I’m saying is that I don’t think that attack is what I was shown. Not exactly, at least. I just… I don’t think we should risk it.” No one answers, so Jon charges on, “I just… things could escalate, you know? Whoever staged this attack probably knows that it didn’t work, there’s no telling if they’ll come back with more force in a week or two when we’ve let our guard down.”

And another thing: Jon could be mistaken here, given that they had been holding hands when they came to his door earlier, but the two had been… rather _intimate_ in the first premonition. Unless something happened in the few hours since Jon had last spoken to Michael, they hadn’t reached that point yet. Every vision deserves its leeway, nothing about the future is ever certain until it comes to pass, but them being at that stage in their relationship did seem to be a pivotal aspect of the scene.

The queen seems to consider his words, rubbing two thin fingers across her brow before sighing. “Jon… you really believe there could be more on the way?”

Jon nods, pinching his face into something that might pass as solemn, “It is a strong possibility. There’s no reason to stop the precautions.”

The queen heaves another sigh and drops her face into her hands, at which point Michael lets his sombre mask fall and cocks his head at Jon, squinting a suspecting smile at him. Jon gestures at him as discreetly as he can to cut it out. Michael quirks a questioning eyebrow. Jon ignores him but doesn’t miss how the knight’s shoulders lose some of their long-held tension as the queen starts to relent.

“And you’re sure you haven’t had any other premonitions?” The queen says, lifting her head.

“Yes, Your Highness,” Jon confirms.

“Right,” she nods, straightening in her chair, clicking back into her rigid queen-like disposition. “Martin, is there anything you could suggest to keep Michael safe in the coming months?”

“Months?” Michael squeaks.

“Well, Your Highness, it seems that everything to do with the threat has occurred within and around the castle. We’ve been working hard to keep the prince secure inside of it, but… it appears our efforts were futile. I would suggest, and with all due respect, I don’t think you will like this idea, but I urge you to at least consider it… we should send the prince away,” Martin says, bringing his hands up in a prematurely placating gesture.

“Send him _away_?” The queen repeats incredulously. “Martin, that is far too dangerous!”

“Staying here isn’t too much better…” Michael mumbles under his breath.

“Stay out of this, Michael,” The queen hisses, “We have done all we can to protect you, the least you could do is be grateful. I gave you a personal guard, for gods’ sake, even if he is practically useless!”

There’s a long moment of silence where Jon’s eyebrows rocket skyward at the unjust barb. He watches, lips sealed until Michael slams a hand down on the table and leans toward his mother with dark eyes. “Do not take this out on him, he saved my life! _You_ have done nothing but _ruin_ it!”

Jon glances to Gerry, face a picture of surprise, perhaps even a little touched.

“You are way out of line, young man,” the queen seethes, “Sit down and keep your mouth shut or I’ll have you confined to your rooms for a year.”

Michael stays where he is, nostrils flaring, teeth clenching. When the tension gets too much, he sinks back into his chair and crosses his arms.

“As I was saying,” Martin continues, toeing carefully back into the conversation, “We’ve done all we can for Michael here, and this next step might be a little daunting, but executing it properly will ensure maximum safety for the prince. After all, desperate times call for desperate measures.” 

The queen’s expression grows increasingly despondent as he speaks. “If you can convince me there is a way to do this safely, we’ll get it done. In these trying times, I- I suppose I need to be more trusting of my people. Please, continue.”

Martin sighs, relieved that she refrained from biting his head off, too. “There’s a remote village to the north of the kingdom. It’s largely populated by our guard outposts, no one has dared attack it for years. It’s a week’s ride away. I propose that we send a decoy carriage to the south early in the morning, make it appear as if the prince is being secreted away to the lower strongholds. Then we’ll send Michael and Sir Keay off to the north village under cover of night, or perhaps before dawn the following morning.”

“It’s a decent plan, Martin,” the queen concedes. “But I’m concerned about the distance. How will we respond quickly if something goes awry?”

“No one will be expecting the prince to be alone with a single escort. I’m assured that the decoy carriage will be an appropriate distraction,” Martin says. 

The queen shakes her head, but not in declination. “Fine. See to it the proper arrangements are made, won’t you? I- I need to go lie down,” she stands, steadying herself against the table for a moment. She leans down to press a kiss to Michael’s hair, but he dodges out of the way. She purses her lips, “I’m sorry I snapped. I love you, Michael.”

Michael glares up at her, shifts in his seat for a moment. “Love you, too,” he relents, not looking at her.

She leaves, another awkward silence arriving in her wake. Beside him, Martin clears his throat and folds his hand over Jon’s. Jon fixes his gaze on their joined hands and sighs, leaning against the larger man and closing his eyes for a brief second.

“I have to make preparations,” Martin says into his hair. “Why don’t you get these two to one of the spare rooms?”

Jon nods and stands with a sigh and a weary “Come on you two.” The others rise from their seats, Michael securing the huge cloak around him. As Jon leads them through the halls, the lack of sleep catching up to him every step, he hears Michael start to return to his normal chattery self. 

“So,” he starts, drawing the word out nice and long, “You and me, Gerry. Just us, alone for a whole week. We are going to be _so_ bored, what could we _possibly_ do to pass the time?”

Jon can practically hear the other’s blush and smiles despite himself.

*

Sleeping after the events of the night is pretty much a write-off, so once Jon sees the prince and his knight to a new room, he settles down to clear his mind. He’s hoping against hope that he can just sit here for an hour, not think, not see, not worry, just _breathe_. Of course, it is far too much to ask for his stupid abilities to take a day off.

An image crackles to mind, grainy like the last one he’d seen. As much as he wants to fight it, to remain in the blissful space of not thinking, he has a responsibility to see what he can, to protect the prince and his people.

Before him is Gerry, again. He’s much younger, face softer, rounder than it is now. His eyes harder, intent on the task at hand, where Jon had only ever seen them wary, dark and watchful. He’s holding a knife, serrated on one side, sawing through a small loaf of bread, brow furrowed as he watches the blade carve through.

The room he sits in appears to be a kitchen- shabby, cobbled together, with clear gaps between slats of wood, no glass where window panes should be. It’s more of a shack than anything, and Jon’s heart aches to see someone growing up in conditions so similar to his own. At least they had both escaped, he thinks. It’s good to count your blessings.

It’s just that, for several dragging minutes, and Jon thinks this might be it, like that time he’d watched Martin read for half an hour. Nothing but the quiet scraping of the blade against bread and board for a minute… two… Then another noise, soft at first, growing louder. A crackling, flickering sound, accompanied by the acrid smell of smoke. Gerry looks up, knife pausing halfway through a slice.

He takes a deep breath, nostrils flaring as his brow creases further, eyes widening as he recognises the smell. He abandons his task and stands, knife still hanging loose in his grasp. He’s slighter than Jon knows him now, more weight in his hips rather than his shoulders. Gerry moves through the house, each room as small and scrumbled together as the last.

At the back of the house is a small yard- if you could even call it that. It’s more of a strip of grass that fades into the trees beyond. A woman is there, thin arms scooping swathes of fabric into a growing bonfire. She looks old, the harsh lines in her face speaking of years of cruelty and hard-won battles.

She glances back as Gerry comes to stand at the threshold of the house, watching as she picks up another item of clothing. She holds it up so that Gerry can see. It’s a pair of trousers, plain black. She tosses them into the fire, sending a crash of sparks billowing upward.

“Women do not wear pants,” she says, voice thin and reedy, as grating as Jon had heard it before.

Gerry takes a deep breath as he realises that she’s burning his pants, fingers tightening around the knife in his hand. Jon feels it in his own, rough handle digging into his palm, blade large but not heavy. It would be so easy…

Jon shudders as Gerry’s thoughts filter through his mind. It’s wrong, nobody deserves this. It would take care of so many problems. Could Gerry live with it? Live with it like he’s lived with her for so long? It’s just a different burden to bear… There must be another way. But what if there isn’t?

Jon watches, breath held in his throat, as the woman turns around, sees the thunderous expression on the boy’s face and the knife in his hands. She pauses as she holds another garment over the flames, the bottoms of the legs catching, curling, singeing away from the heat.

“Are you going to use that?” She asks, voice lowering from the taunting pitch it had risen to. “I wouldn’t.”

There’s a long moment where Jon hardly dares to breathe, and neither breaks their gaze from the other. Then Gerry drops the knife, metal clattering against the rough steps of the tiny abode, and turns back, storming toward a room to the other side of the house, no larger than a closet.

The event sketches forward, blurring and crumbling together to reveal Gerry now wondering through thick trees, stumbling over roots with a meagre sack thrown over his shoulder. His breathing is ragged and he’s hungry, far more than he can ever remember being. Despite the food resting in Jon’s belly, he can feel the man’s gnawing appetite begin its searing climb up his throat. Jon doesn’t know when he last ate.

His muscles ache, having spent the better part of the day scrambling through patches of moss, tripping over small creeks and clearings. He’s tiring, the longer he treks the more he feels that familiar urge to turn tail and run back home. But he persists. He’s old enough, he can pave his own way.

After a few slow moments of nothing but walking and panting and walking, he spies a small structure in the distance, the slumped shape of it illuminated in the glow of the moon. He makes his way over to it. It’s dark, no light shining through the windows, no smoke billowing from the chimney. Taking his chances on the assumption of its abandonment, Gerry tries the handle, and it opens without resistance. Inside is a respectable living space, tidy save for the dust and strings of web sticking between every surface and corner.

His aching muscles sigh at the thought of rest, and he steps over the threshold. He’s met by a wall of cobweb, and he tries in vain to scrub it out of his face and hair, eyes screwed shut.

When he opens them, the room is lit, a generous fire rumbling away behind its grate, a lantern sitting atop the small table. He gasps and freezes. Gerry must have made a mistake. He must have been wanting shelter so bad that he’d seen only what he wanted- somewhere dark to lay his lonely head.

There’s a woman, sitting behind the lantern, dark skin glowing orange between the two light sources. She smiles, and Gerry feels a cold rush of air from the door slamming closed behind him. He doesn’t dare look away from her. Her hair is white, cut close to her scalp. She blinks, still smiling, and though she only has a single pair of eyes, Gerry can feel several others on him, making his skin crawl.

“I- I,” Gerry stutters, gulps, tries again, “I’m so sorry, I thou-.”

“Sit down, child,” she says. The chair across from her pivots. The woman had not moved. “I think there’s something you need.”

Gerry holds back any protests he might have, praying that he isn’t about to be turned over to Mary, and takes the seat.

The woman smiles, and reaches back toward the fireplace, using a rag to pull a whistling kettle from the flames and settling it on a plate on the table. It’s funny- she does this, but her arms don’t move at all from where she’s laid them, delicate, precise, on the table. “Would you like some tea?” she asks, shaking something out of two teacups. Whatever falls out skitters away into the shadows of the room.

Gerry shakes his head. “No, thank you.” His stomach growls.

She keeps up her sweet smile and pours two cups of tea. “Darling, you mustn’t deny your own needs. I’m Annabelle, by the way. What’s your name?”

“I… I’m not sure,” Gerry says. “I have a name. I don’t think it’s mine, though.”

She pushes a cup over. It’s the perfect temperature. “I understand.”

Gerry takes a sip, letting the warm tea lull him into a more comfortable state. He glances around the room, at all the cobwebs connecting the furniture and decorations in a sticky tapestry.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Annabelle says, “I should be more hospitable to my guests, shouldn’t I?” She picks something up from the table, a length of string that runs along the wood, disappearing over the edge. She gives it a single sharp tug and a flurry of movement occurs behind Gerry. He twists around in time to see something disappearing into a closet, wooden hand shutting itself in. The room is now clean.

“What are you?” Gerry finds himself asking, not quite sure where the question came from. She’s got to be human, right? What else could she be?

She cocks her head to the side and laughs. “Oh, honey, you don’t get out much, do you? I’m a witch.”

Gerry can’t find it in himself to be surprised, but the fear dancing within his veins grows tenfold. Jon isn’t taken aback either. Witches aren’t a rarity, nor are they easy to find, not when they don’t _want_ to be found. Annabelle must have wanted to see this young Gerry for a reason.

“You want something,” She says. It isn’t a question. She observes as he sips at the mug, making no move to drink from her own. “What is it?”

Gerry bites his lip. He does want things. He wants so much. But there is one thing that he wants above all else. But he can’t tell her that, that’s… he can’t. “Well, uh, I want money… I want to live somewhere nice… I want a good family...”

She nods. “All noble wishes, child. But that isn’t what I meant. I think you know what I meant.”

Gerry blushes. Oh, what the hell? It isn’t like his life could get any worse. “I… I want to be a man.” 

She looks him over for a long second, eyebrows cinching together, “Then I’m quite sure that you are one.”

Through his surprise at the level-headed response he manages, “No, but I… I don’t have… How could I be a man without the right body? How will I be treated like one if I don’t look right?” He hides his burning face behind his tea.

She chuckles. “My, you have a lot to learn, don’t you? That’s alright. You’ll find yourself, all in good time. So, young man… it is a different body you want?”

Gerry frowns, not understanding half of what she says, but nods fervently at the last thing, heart singing to be addressed as such. He sits forward in his chair. “Can you do that for me?”

She laughs again. “Why of course I can! However, nothing is free in this life, my boy.”

Gerry’s heart sinks, and Jon can feel the disappointment weighing thick and heavy, a struggle he knows all too well cropping up once more. “I’m sorry, I don’t have any money. I could get some, somehow… I swear I'd come right back, I-.”

“No, no, honey, I don’t need money. I much prefer… service for service type transactions,” she says.

Hope and conflict bubble up in equal measures inside the young man. This is everything he’s ever wanted. But is it worth running from one captor only to become the slave of another? Who knows how long he’ll have to work to pay off the debt?

“I’m sorry, I’m not sure I want to be somebody’s slave,” Gerry says.

“Oh, nothing like that, dearest,” she says, “I’ll just need you to promise that you’ll get something done for me.”

“What?” Gerry says, breathless, growing frantic, “Anything.”

“Well,” she starts. Jon sees her open her mouth to say more, lips and tongue moving to form words, a sentence, a request. He hears nothing but static. That’s never happened before… something’s being held back. There’s something here that someone doesn’t want him to know.

He sees Gerry, eyebrows rising, “You want me to-?” he repeats what she said, face incredulous. Again, Jon hears that crunching buzz, words indiscernible.

The vision fades for a moment and Jon can feel his butt against the carpet, the chill air of his chambers at night. He’s about to open his eyes when it returns in full. Neither Annabelle nor Gerry have moved. Gerry is blinking his eyes open, and the woman looks at him curiously, waiting for some kind of response. Gerry rubs at his chest, significantly flatter, and Jon can feel a warm glow in his own, the painful ache of satisfaction shared across bodies and time.

Gerry pats his face, down his chest and legs, all over, “Is it done? Is that it?” he asks in a deeper voice, so similar to the voice Jon knows now.

Annabelle hums noncommittally.

“Wait…” he says, face growing confused. “You didn’t-?”

“Not quite,” she says, smiling ever pleasant, “I’m afraid I need that… service… completed before I can do the rest.”

Gerry’s face grows angry, brows pulling together over his dark eyes. “We had a deal.”

“Of course! We still do. I just need a little insurance that you will do as I asked,” she says, spreading her hands- far too many.

“But…” he sighs, upset. Jon can feel the panic and despair rising. He’d come so close to everything he’d wanted. He’s had a taste; he can’t go back now. “How do I do that? I can’t just-,” a moment of static, “can I?”

Annabelle shrugs. “That isn’t for me to decide. Find a way. There are many.”

Myriad emotions play across Gerry’s face- sadness, anger, fear, determination, each as intense as the last. “Okay,” he says. “What- what did you mean when you said that I had a lot to learn?”

She smiles, reaches over the table to clasp his shoulders. “That isn’t the sort of knowledge that I can just hand over. It isn’t the sort that sits in books or grows on trees. You need to find it, through you, through others, through connection. But I will say this. If you haven’t learnt it by the time you return to me, however long that may be, however well you’ve completed your task, I’m afraid I won’t be able to help you.”

Gerry still looks confused, but nods. Then the vision is gone, ripped from Jon like a carpet beneath his feet. He opens his eyes to the grey stone of his bedroom wall and sighs. What the fuck did Gerard get himself into?

*

“Are you sure I can’t bring this?” Michael asks, holding up a bright yellow cloak.

Gerry pauses from where he’s packing a spare set of armour into one of the bags and sighs. “Sure, if you want everyone to know where we are at all times,” Gerry says.

Michael huffs and sinks onto the bed, looking over to the shattered window. The night is pitch black, at its darkest point before the sun will start to creep over the horizon, spilling its light across the land. The land that will be all his responsibility once his mother steps down from the throne. He doesn’t want it. Never has. That arrow had been quite a scare, but more frightening than that was the prospect of missing his chance to run away. If they had decided that the threat had passed and assigned Gerry to a different detail… there’s no telling how far that would have pushed his plan back.

He would’ve had to make time in his day to go find and flirt with Gerry, quite likely getting him in trouble for distracting him. Or maybe he’d have to find a new knight altogether. He shudders, he can’t imagine another knight protecting him. It’s only been a few weeks since Jon’s first dream, but… it’s weird to consider waking up alone now. Going anywhere alone, doing anything alone. He doesn’t want to get lost in that pervasive solitude ever again.

If they’d decided that the threat had passed, well… Michael isn’t sure that he wouldn’t have wished that the arrow did take him.

“Hey, are you alright?” Gerry says, crouching still a few feet away. His voice is gentle, and Michael looks over to admire his handsome face in the low candlelight. He stands and begins to approach when Michael doesn’t answer right away. “Your Highness?”

Michael blinks, standing, laying his hands on the knight’s shoulders. “Don’t call me that. And yeah, I’m fine, I just…” He wraps his arms around Gerry and pulls him close, “I never thanked you. Not properly.” 

Gerry stiffens, then relaxes, unwinding enough to return the hug, letting his chin rest on Michael’s shoulder, having to stretch up a little to meet his height. “It’s no big deal. I was just doing my job.”

Michael pulls back, searching Gerry’s eyes. He knows what he wants him to say. He wants him to say it wasn’t just the job, that he wanted to save Michael because he likes him. That Michael is more than just a salary to him. That’s what he needs to hear if the plan is going to work.

But there’s something else. Something Michael doesn’t want to- can’t- acknowledge right now. He wants Gerry to like him. Not for the plan, not so he’ll whisk him away to a better life. He wants Gerry to like him because… well, he likes Gerry. More than he would admit, more than he can let himself know at the moment. It’s too much of a distraction. He needs to stay focused, or he’ll never get out of here.

“Also…” Michael says, “This is the last time that we’ll have a bed for a week, so… now’s your chance.” He wiggles his eyebrows. Gerry blushes and turns his head away, stepping out of the prince’s grasp. Michael pouts.

“Keep packing, Michael, we want to leave before the sun comes up, okay? And find some dull colours, please?” Gerry says, going back to his packing.

Michael enjoys the blush for a few moments longer before turning to pull more garments out of the closet. He’s hard-pressed to find anything plain, but he figures a vibrant green tunic will blend in with the forest they’ll be riding through, so he throws that in.

“Are you ready?” Gerry asks after around ten minutes of comfortable silence.

“Yeah, I guess,” Michael says, squashing his clothes down so that they’ll fit in the bag.

Gerry hefts his bag over a shoulder and comes forward to do the same to Michael’s. “I’ll take these down to the stables. I’m sure you’ll want to say goodbye? To the queen? To Jon at least? Meet me down there, and wear this brown one, okay?”

Michael nods, a small fluttering of nerves and despair laying siege on his gut as he realises that he won’t be seeing Jon or Martin for at least two weeks. He leaves Gerry with the bags and heads to Jon’s chambers, knocking on the door before he can think too hard about what he might say. He has no idea if they’re even awake.

The door opens, and just like the previous night, Jon is standing there, greeting him with bleary eyes and a wide yawn. “Michael. I thought you were supposed to have left already?”

Michael steps into the room, leaning against the door as he closes it behind him. “I know, we’re just about to leave. And I know I already said goodbye so that we could avoid this last minute… thing, but… I’m really going to miss you, Jon. I- we haven’t been apart for longer than a few days since I can remember, I-.”

“Oh, Michael,” Jon says, tugging him into a hug. “I’m going to miss you too. But Martin says this is the safest option… I want you safe, okay?”

Michael buries his face in Jon’s soft hair and sniffs. “Mmhm. I just- Oh, I don’t know, as much as I want this, I- it’s a lot, there’s so much happening.”

“I know,” Jon sighs, “Change is hard. But hey,” he leans back, wipes the tears from Michael’s face, “I got you your handsome knight, didn’t I? He’ll protect you.”

Michael hums, musters a smile.

“You’re still okay with him, right? You’re fine with being alone? It’s okay if you aren’t, but I’m sure he’ll keep you both safe, and-.”

“Jon, are you trying to segue way into a sex talk?” Michael jokes weakly.

“No! No, sorry. Not that I would know anything about that anyway… I guess I just mean to ask if you’re okay with all this. Leaving and everything?” Jon says, running his hands up and down Michael’s arms. 

Michael nods. Thinks about all the things he hasn’t told Jon. Thinks of their years of friendship. “Jon, I… I have to tell you something. But it can wait. It can wait until I get back,” he says.

It occurs to him, all at once, overwhelming; he might not come back. He might be killed by an assassin before they reach the stronghold. Gerry might finally fall in love with him and whisk him away to a far-off cottage where he can spend his days in his garden and read. He’ll never see Jon again if either of these things happen. His vision blurs as his eyes well with fresh tears. He lets out a small sob, and Jon reels him in again.

“Michael! What do you mean 'tell me something'? You won’t be gone for long. They’ll probably find that archer tomorrow, and they’ll send a message out to you and you’ll be back before you’ve even really left. Why can’t you tell me now?” Jon says, squeezing him tighter.

Michael shakes his head, “I’m sorry, I just… I don’t have time. Can you promise me something?”

“Anything, Michael.”

“Come find me? If anything happens, just… You’ll See where I am, and you’ll come find me?” Michael pulls back, searching his face.

Jon nods, frown deepening. “Michael. I know we’re on a bit of a timer here, so I won’t ask. But you’re worrying me a little right now. Promise me you’re okay? Promise me and I’ll promise you.”

“I promise I’m okay,” Michael says, unsure if it’s true.

“I promise I’ll come find you,” Jon says.

“Okay,” Michael says, breathing a sigh of relief. “Okay, I need to go now, or it’ll be dawn before we leave. Tell Martin I said goodbye.”

“I will,” Jon says, still frowning a little.

Michael smiles, kisses him on the forehead, and leaves before Jon can see that he’s crying again.

*

Gerry takes his time strapping the bags onto the packhorse, knowing that Michael will likely take his time to say goodbye to his best friend, schedule be damned. The horses are still drowsy, blinking their big drooping eyes at him as he secures the supplies around them.

His hands slip time and again as he buckles straps and ties knot. He just can’t focus, far too much going on in his mind to pay any real attention to the task at hand. He had stopped the attack, that’s what the witch wanted, right? He had certainly thought so. He casts his mind back to the previous night, Michael’s absent rambling as the ball of flame tunnelled closer beyond the window, his arms tight around him, warm lips soft and desperate against his own. He’d done it. He’d saved the prince, all while resisting his advances and keeping his secret. That’s all the witch could want. Right?

But then Jon had spoken up. Said that wasn’t all, that there was more coming. Could he be right? Is there more? Is there another attack coming to the prince? Or was he bluffing? Gerry can’t think of a valid reason why Jon would lie, but he just can’t see any real proof that this whole trip is justified.

Now he has to spend at least two weeks alone with the prince. The prince who seems hell-bent on flirting him to death. He knows Michael’s going to take full advantage, turn the seduction dial up to eleven and snap the knob off.

It’s not like Gerry doesn’t want to. He’s lonely, he can’t deny that, and to have Michael kiss him like that again… touch him as he had in the bathroom… Gerry thinks that’d be more than he could bear, thinks he would break apart under the attention he’s so unaccustomed to. But he can’t. If Michael finds out his secret, there’s no telling how fast he’ll be executed. Of course, alone as they will be on the way to the stronghold, there would be nothing stopping Gerry from fleeing into the woods. But he couldn’t leave Michael there alone, unprotected, even if he is a bit of a brat.

He can’t see a way out of this. As far as he can tell, there are two options. Continue to resist Michael’s advances, push through the mounting temptation of being completely alone with him. That would likely only prompt questioning. And if that happens, Gerry is probably going to have to tell Michael straight up that he’s not attracted to him, which will be a lie, and they’ll both know it because Gerry already admitted his attraction. Maybe if he resists long enough Michael will get bored. Even as he thinks it, Gerry knows that’s not likely.

Or he can succumb to Michael. Kiss those soft lips, run his fingers through his golden curls, for as long as Michael doesn’t know. But he’ll find out, eventually, and he’ll be disgusted, horrified, inevitably, and Gerry will be ruined.

There is a third option, he supposes. He could take one of these horses and leave right now, on his own. Flee back to the witch, see if what he’s done is enough. But with Jon’s assertion that the threat is not yet neutralised, and the fact that he still has no idea what the witch wanted him to learn, Gerry can’t risk it. If he goes back to Annabelle and what he’s done isn’t enough, all this will be for nothing. He won’t even be able to come back to the prince, because once he flees, he’ll be a traitor to the Crown. No, he can’t risk it.

Whatever happens, he thinks, he’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it. Be it his execution or hurting Michael’s feelings (well now, when he puts it like that, it seems like an easy choice), he’ll decide when he gets there. And by the end of it all with the prince safe back in the castle, attacks ridden out, there’s no way the witch could turn him away. And maybe he could come back to the castle too, once the witch has finished him, and maybe Michael would still have him.

There’s a soft trudging of footsteps behind him, and he does his best to school his face into something resembling neutrality before turning to face the prince. He’s walking across the courtyard, the hood of his -thankfully brown- cloak flipped back over his shoulders.

When he gets to the stables, Gerry reaches up to pull the hood up to hide Michael’s head, not failing to notice the way his eyes shine red-rimmed in the light of a single lantern. “Discretion, remember?”

Michael whines, “It might fuck up my hair, though.”

Gerry scoffs, fighting against a swell of affection at the protest. Hold on; what the fuck was that? 

Affection? Sure, the prince is lovely and kind and a huge pain in the ass, but Gerry can’t be feeling affection for him, right? This is just a job, nothing more. A job that will get him everything he’s wanted, but still. It’s one thing to think of him as a maybe-friend, but he can’t go fucking this up by catching _feelings_. There’s no need to make things even more complicated by falling in love- 

_Love_? Who said anything about that? Oh, dear. Gerry needs to stop thinking. “Are you ready?” he asks the prince.

Michael nods.

Gerry leads the two horses out to the gate, the one loaded with supplies roped loosely behind the other. Two armoured guards wait until they near to let them pass, bowing to the prince. Gerry mounts the first horse and pulls Michael up behind him.

Michael settles in as Gerry kicks the steed into action, his chest warm against the knight’s back even through layers of armour and clothing. His arms clasp tight around Gerry’s waist, fingers slipping between a few sheets of leather. Gerry hears and feels a small, contented sigh puff against his ear, and this time he fails to keep the rush of fondness at bay.

 _Fuck._

Things could never be simple for him, could they?

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> every day i think of canon ace Jon..  
> also if yall think something needs its own tag/content warning please let me know and I'll add it :)  
> thanks for reading and feel free to leave comments ;-]


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> some conversations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me rubbing my hands together: o yes time to project my rejection sensitivity onto everybody.
> 
> Content warnings: animal death (very minor), vomiting
> 
> Enjoy! :O

It’s always brought him a sense of peace, to be in the forest, away from anything that could resemble a home. Mossy rock and shallow creeks pass by underfoot as Gerry and Michael make their way toward the northern stronghold a week’s ride away. Deep forests give way to rolling planes of tall dancing grass and sparse woodland. It’s peaceful, and Gerry allows himself to relax in increments, only when he’s sure that they aren’t being followed.

As nervous as he is trekking over open hills, absolutely no cover in sight, the warmth of Michael against his back is more than enough to distract him.

Gerry almost wishes they were being followed, with how awkward things get. It doesn’t take long. An hour into the journey, that need to speak is hanging heavy in the air even as neither of them can quite think of anything to say. It isn’t like they haven’t talked before, it’s just that they’ve never been so thoroughly, inescapably _alone_ as this. Even just the two of them in the prince’s chambers hadn’t been so private; always people thrumming along the veins of the castle, chatting, planning, working, living. Not out here: it’s just them. The prince and the knight.

Even the wildlife seems to feel a stagnating want to connect them, halting its ceaseless chittering songs, begging for one of them to split the shallow silence. When Gerry finds something to say, it’s with hands fidgeting around the reins as he guides the horses around a tumbling pile of rocks.

“So… What’s the deal with Jon and Martin?” He asks, Michael no doubt feeling the sudden stiffness of his back as he breaches the silence. “How’d that, uh, happen?”

Michael shifts behind him, disturbed by the break in the hush. “Why?” he starts, a teasing edge to his voice, “You like one of them?”

“No, no, uh… I mean, they’re both, uh, fine-looking I guess but, umm, I just… I didn’t actually- I didn’t know that two men were allowed to be together, u-until I saw them, actually,” Gerry says, certain that Michael can tell he’s blushing, even facing straight ahead as he is.

“Oh,” Michael says, sounding not a little confused, “How-? I mean, it’s not like anyone hides anymore. Sure, things used to be kind of shitty when my granddad was in charge and some people are still hateful, some are still scared, but that was a long time ago… well before I was around. How old are you, anyway, dear knight?”

“25, like you. I just… I didn’t know. I guess I- never mind,” he trails off.

Michael hums, cuts himself off. “Wait. Oh. You must’ve been so confused when I started flirting right off the bat, then, huh?”

Gerry grunts, embarrassed to have started talking in the first place. Why can’t he just keep his mouth shut, be the stoic knight that he’s tried so hard to be over the last month?

“Sorry,” Michael says, remorse colouring his tone as his breath wafts over the back of Gerry’s neck. “Do you want to hear about how Jon and Martin got together, then?”

“Yeah. If you want,” Gerry says quietly.

“Well…”

*

“You seem comfortable here,” Michael says, watching as Gerry tethers the horses to some trees with expert hands and rummages around in the pack for a few apples and strips of cured meat. “Did you grow up doing a lot of this?”

Gerry nods a little, not meeting his eye, hands him an apple, and a piece of jerky. “I lived on the edge of a small town with my mother, just outside the woods. I… didn’t like to live with her. I ran away a lot, lived on my own in terrain like this, learnt to survive. It never lasted long, I, uh, could never stay away for longer than a week. I don’t know why- I wish I could’ve. I just… I don’t know.”

Michael regards him as he settles down on a rock beside him. Gerry’s never been so open like this. Any mention of childhood is usually the quickest way to build a wall between them. It seems the fresh air is doing them both some good, and Michael’s glad for it.

“Gerry-,” Michael starts, thinking now would be a great time to get him to let go, share his life… become closer, maybe, hopefully. Why hadn’t they gotten to this place sooner? Of course letting people talk about themselves would be the way to their hearts.

Gerry clears his throat, “Sorry, didn’t mean to get so deep, there. What about you? I mean, we’ve all heard what you got up to when you were younger, but what was it like? Growing up knowing that everything you could see out your bedroom window would be yours one day?”

Michael’s heart skips a beat as the conversation gets perilously close to where it needs to be if Gerry’s going to whisk him away to a new life. He takes a bite of the apple to keep his thoughts from projecting all over his face, “I hated it,” he says, and Gerry lifts his head in surprise, “I never wanted any of it, I just wanted to be a kid, to have other kid friends and have a normal life. I- I realise it sounds ungrateful, and I guess there’s no excuse for that, but I just… this life isn’t mine, or at least, it’s never felt like it was.”

Gerry watches him carefully as he speaks. At first, he looks annoyed, as he should, Michael thinks. If he’d grown up fighting for every day’s meal like Gerry had, sure he’d be pissed if some snotty royal started in on how hard their life is. He can’t blame him. But as he talks, Gerry’s face softens into something kinder, something like recognition, or understanding. 

“No, I get it,” he says, scratching at his chin as he fixes his vacant gaze on a fallen log. “I know what it’s like, to be born into something not meant for you. And you know, it can’t be easy, the whole ‘responsibility for thousands of lives’ thing.”

Michael hums. “Yeah. I don’t mean to complain, you know, Mum’s a good teacher, and I’d have Jon and Martin to help me when- when she isn’t around anymore, but… it’s just not what I want to do. Sometimes,” he glances at Gerry, still looking at the log, “sometimes I wish I could leave it all behind. Start over somewhere smaller, quieter…”

Gerry frowns, turns his head a little, now looking at a leaf drifting a slow circle in a puddle on the ground. “Maybe it wasn’t. Meant for you, that is. I don’t mean to bring up anything sensitive, but maybe it was her first child. The princess. Maybe she was supposed to take the throne.”

Michael sighs. Yeah, that’s about what he’s been thinking all along. He smiles a little, Gerry’s far more intuitive than he’s been giving him credit for. “Mm. It does feel like that. Like I’m a hasty second attempt. She had Helen long before me, anyway. I was quite literally a replacement baby.”

“Even if you are,” Gerry says, shrugging, “she still loves you. I’m sure of that.”

“I know. I do. I don’t think she understands me, though. Or if she does, she just doesn’t care that what she and I want are two entirely different things.”

“What do you want?” Gerry asks, finally turning his head to lock eyes with Michael, dark gaze warmed red in the high noon sun.

“I-,” here’s his chance. To ask him to take him away. Disobey the queen and start his life over with Michael. He just has to say the words, shoot his shot, and hope for the best. “I don’t know,” he finishes lamely. He kicks himself for losing the nerve; it might be weeks before another opening like that presents itself.

Gerry nods and stands. “Ready to keep going?”

Michael sighs once more and allows Gerry to pull him to his feet.

*

They make camp for the first night in a small clearing within a rare copse of trees. The year has been struggling its way out of winter for a few weeks now, and although bush and branch alike are flush with budding leaves for the first time in months, the air is still icy, the ground hard and packed beneath them. Gerry gets Michael to set up the bedrolls, doing his best to insulate them from the frozen dirt with a few furs while Gerry encourages a small flame into a respectable blaze.

Dinner is another few pieces of fruit, some bread and cheese. It doesn’t do much to fill either of them, but by the time the sun has set, they’re both too tired to care much.

“Gerry,” Michael whispers.

The knight blinks awake, startling a little before he regains his bearings. For a single horrifying second, he thinks he’s run away again, run from Mary, and found himself out in the lonely cold. But no; Michael is beside him, levering himself up on an elbow. His face is glowing a dull orange in the dying fire, and though his hair is mussed, and his lips are chapped, he’s still the most beautiful person Gerry has ever seen.

“Michael?” He sits up, and the chill dives in under his back with zero hesitation, wrapping around and drawing a shiver from his spine, “What is it?”

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have woken you, it’s just. It's like… super fucking cold, I thought maybe…” he bites his lip. “We could get a bit closer?”

Gerry looks him over for a moment, watching him shiver and pull a coat tighter around him. The prince is asking to cuddle him. He turns away for a moment, poking at the glowing embers and dropping a couple of small logs in, sparks spurting up into the night sky at the impact. He’s too tired to think about the pros and cons. All he knows right now is that it’s probably a bad idea. And that it _is_ fucking cold.

He turns back around, “Okay. Shuffle over a bit.”

In the growing light of the flames, Michael looks surprised but does as he’s told, wriggling around until there’s space on his bedroll for the both of them. Gerry shuffles closer, dragging his blankets with him. Michael turns his back to Gerry, and the knight wraps an arm around him, pulling him snug with a hand on his chest and situating the extra furs over them.

Michael lets out a contented hum, pressing back against him as the shivers subside, fingers brushing against Gerry’s arm. He thinks for a moment that Michael might thread their fingers together, and in his sleep-addled brain, finds no issue with it, opening his hand a little to allow it. Instead, Michael just shivers one last time and settles into sleep, warm in Gerry’s embrace, hair smelling like lavender and wind.

*

“You and Jon are close, right?” Gerry asks the following morning. Michael is behind him again, trying not to release the dreamy sigh building in his chest at the memory of Gerry’s strong arm around him through the night. It has warmed by a significant margin since the sun came up, and it shines down on them as they make their way through a steep valley. “Did you ever, um…? Were you ever, uh…” Gerry clears his throat, and Michael feels it as an awkward buzz through his chest.

He frowns, “Did I what? Sleep with him? No, Gerry! _Ew_ , we’re practically brothers!”

“Sorry, sorry,” Gerry says, laughing through his embarrassment. “I just… I guess I don’t know what it’s like having friends that close, or siblings, or… Just forget it, I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s alright,” Michael chuckles, “It’s just… yuck. No offense, Jon, I love him, but… no.”

“Okay,” Gerry says. And for almost half an hour it's left at that.

“What’s it like?” Gerry asks, weirdly quiet once they’ve left the valley far behind. “Having a brother? Or… someone that you’re so close to?” 

“Oh, you know… It’s like… Well, I don’t know what it’d be like to not have a brother, so I’m not sure I can answer this very well. I guess it’s kind of like having a friend… But with friends- I wouldn’t really know about that either, huh- I think you can, like, _lose_ normal friends? But brothers is forever. Even when you’re convinced that you hate them. Even if they were legitimately terrible people. You can’t… _not_ love them. Can’t not be a part of them.”

“Hm,” Gerry hums, sounding wistful.

“But Jon’s always been good to me. Whenever I’d get overwhelmed he’d talk me down and just… talk to me, tell me stories and stuff until I fell asleep. He’s done so much for me and Mum, we wouldn’t be here without him. He’s the best big brother that I never asked for,” he laughs a little, perhaps more watery than he’d like.

Gerry grunts again, something about it… a bit off, a bit strangled. Michael peers over his shoulder, trying to get a look at the knight’s face, worried that he may have upset him. Gerry turns away.

“Gerry, dear, are you alright?” Michael asks.

He hums, a little shaky. “I just- it must be nice. Having someone with you, even at your worst, your loneliest. It’s not- I’ve never- shit- I don’t know what that’s like. I’ve never not been alone,” he admits. Michael doesn’t think he’s mistaken when he hears a small sniff at the end of his words, a careful exhale.

“I’m sorry,” Michael says, grinding his teeth together, trying to think of something to say that won’t make it worse. “I’ve never thought of it quite like that. You have me, now, though. We can be alone together, right?”

Gerry huffs. “You keep saying that. ‘We’re alone,’” he says, tone indiscernible.

Michael frowns. “Do you want me to stop?” he shuffles away a bit on the horse, keeping hold of Gerry’s waist but putting distance between his chest and the knight’s back.

Gerry doesn’t answer. The moment drags on for a while until Michael’s sure that Gerry isn’t going to say anything; is just going to leave him hanging in this uncertain space. “… No,” Gerry says, so quiet Michael almost misses it.

Michael sighs and leans back against him. “You know, I- why are we stopping?” he starts to say, cutting himself off as Gerry gives a sharp tug on the reins.

“How do you feel about fresh meat for dinner?” He reaches past Michael for the bow and arrow slung over the back of the horse.

Michael looks beyond Gerry’s shoulder to a small shrub a few metres ahead, where a rabbit sits, rummaging around in the grass before standing stock still, turning its head to stare at them with one round black eye. “Oh. Only if I don’t have to watch.”

He turns away as Gerry nocks an arrow.

*

Gerry is cooking the rabbit over a fire, staring into the flames as they crackle and lick around the skinned rodent. It isn’t the cleanest or meatiest game he’s ever found, but it’ll do more than a couple of slices of bread and cheese. Michael is watching warily as he rotates it on the stick, having already found a dry patch of dirt to roll out what a more generous person might call a bed.

Michael sighs, “But it was so cute. We could’ve just eaten more fruit…”

“I did ask you if you were okay with it,” Gerry says, resting the rabbit stick above the fire, unbuckling his sword and sheath from his belt and loosening some of the leather plates of his armour.

“You know, I was quite excited to go camping. Sleeping under the stars, telling stories by the fire or whatever… But everything’s just all wet and cold and you won’t even let us set up camp in the open because we might maybe possibly be killed. No stars out anyway, too cloudy and…” Michael tucks his head in on top of his knees and continues to ramble about the poor conditions.

Gerry smiles as he watches the initial allure of camping diminish from Michael’s eyes. He’s cute when he rambles on like this, even if Gerry does have a hard time understanding what he’s trying to say. He turns his attention back to the probably overdone meat as Michael starts to comb out his hair and wind it into a braid, still complaining about the early spring weather.

They eat dinner in relative silence, save for Michael trying to pretend that the rabbit is good (it isn’t- all charred on the outside, stringy and tough in the middle), and when it comes time to settle down for the night, Gerry sits on his bedroll and waits for Michael to make a move. It’ll be another cold night, but he doesn’t want to assume anything.

Michael clears his throat, “Can we, uh… do the same as last night?” He looks into the flames as he asks, and if the light were any brighter Gerry might’ve been able to see the blush rising to his already chill-reddened cheeks.

“Sure,” Gerry says, keeping his voice nonchalant, “It’s probably better anyway, you know, ‘cause of the cold.”

Michael shuffles over, dropping heavy beside him, but not laying down. He’s close. Of course, that’s to be expected, what with being about to huddle for warmth and everything, but it feels odd… like he’s expecting something more. Gerry feels a hand on his arm, fingers thin but warm through his shirt, and a ghost of breath across his face. Instinctively, his heart pumps a little faster.

“Can I kiss you?” Michael asks.

Gerry blinks. Hm. Yes, Michael had just asked if he could kiss him. That’s not a big deal, not at all. Except that it could lead to more, and then more, and that would not be good. Because… because why? Think, damn it! Gerry tries to push past the warmth of Michael in front of him, the memory of his hasty lips on his after the attack, his body hot against his own. He’s got to- got to say no, because… shit, because secrets, finding out, all of that.

“You can say no, Gerry,” Michael says, putting the smallest margin of space between them. “You can say no to any of it, okay? The flirting, the touching, any of it. The decision’s yours, knight.”

Gerry takes a shaky breath in, “No.” A shaky breath out. Okay. That wasn’t so hard.

“To what?” Michael whispers.

“The kiss,” Gerry swallows.

“Only the kiss?”

Gerry nods, “Just the kiss. You- you can flirt if you want… I just- shit, I’m sorry, I’m really bad at this.”

Gerry can’t be sure through his emotional turmoil, but he thinks he hears Michael sigh in relief. “That’s alright. I guess you can’t be handsome and talented _and_ suave. Can we…?” He trails a hand up Gerry’s arm, giving it a light tug.

Gerry nods again and chokes out a “Yes,” and lays down against the furs, pulling Michael against him, manoeuvring them both into a warm, comfortable position.

*

By the third day, they’ve settled into the rhythm of travel, Michael growing comfortable enough to even take short naps against Gerry’s back. He has to stoop a little to rest his head on the knight’s shoulder, and he’s probably going to have to see a chiropractor after this, but he can say- with complete honesty- he’s never been happier.

It’s been nice. Away from the castle. He misses the comforts of staying in one place, that much is obvious. His bed, the kitchens, his garden. Of course he misses that, there’s no way he wouldn’t. He misses Jon, too, his level head and quiet humour. Misses Martin and his gentle disposition. There’s no end to the things he’d prefer to have here with him. But the pressures of being king alleviated from his shoulders, a beautiful knight riding them both to safety… it’s a freedom he doesn’t think he’s ever had the pleasure of knowing.

He thinks Gerry likes it, too. He’s opening up more, talking about himself and his past. Sure, he gets embarrassed and sometimes just stops talking mid-sentence and doesn’t say any more for hours after, but it's more than Michael has known him for thus far. Michael loves to listen to Gerry talk, even about something redundant, like how to skin a rabbit or light a fire. Michael likes to let his soft timbre wash over him, curl in his ears soft and familiar. 

He’s so stoic, too. He’s been through so much. Michael can’t say he’s ever brushed elbows with the trials of poverty, but he’s quite sure that Gerry’s seen them all, lived them all, and Michael feels terrible about it. He hates knowing that he lived like that, alone, void of anyone who might love him as well as he deserved. Whenever the knight mentions his mother, Michael has to fight a wave of fury. 

And it would be so easy to find her too. With his sway over the kingdom, there’d be no stopping him.

But he can’t think like that. Gerry’s put it in the past, so must he. And besides, if Michael doesn’t want to be king, he has to give up on all the power and luxury that would come with it. That’s the price, and Michael is willing to pay.

Above all else, Michael’s favourite past time remains making Gerry blush, watching that pretty pink spread over his cheeks as he turns away and tries to hide it. You’d think after weeks of exposure to the prince’s antics, the knight would be used to it, but no, each compliment, each suggestive eyebrow quirk, it all gets to him. All the wonderful scenery in the world couldn’t substitute bringing a smile to the face of the man he loves.

Hm. Wait. Michael blinks awake, shaking off the drowsy haze he’d been in. No… he really did just think that. About Gerry. When did that happen? When did Michael fall in love with him? That wasn’t supposed to happen!

It’s too early for that! It was going to happen eventually, sure, but Gerry was supposed to love him first. Shit, now Michael’s going to get all annoying and clingy. This is so inconvenient. Gods damn it. He’s probably already become annoying, hasn’t he? Michael is suddenly aware of how close he’s pressed to Gerry’s back. Yep, he is clingy. Fuck, why didn’t Jon tell him?

“Hey, are you alright?” Gerry says, voice vibrating through his back into Michael’s chest. “You’ve gone all stiff back there.”

Michael thinks of something to say. Anything to keep from just… spilling his guts right here and now. “You could have me stiff anytime you like, handsome,” is what comes out.

Gerry laughs, he tries to stifle it, dropping his head down, but the sound breaks free anyway. It’s beautiful. 

“You’re ridiculous,” he says.

Before he can stop himself, a question bursts free. “Sorry, I was just thinking… why are you so resistant? When I flirt? When I want to kiss you?” He kicks himself. That’s too forward, you idiot! He’s going to think Michael’s weird now. If he doesn’t already. He should just cut his losses and run; hop off the horse and sprint across this green field, let the assassin’s take him. He doesn’t. Instead, he opens his damned mouth to say more, “Am I repulsive? Is that it?” Oh, Gods… 

“What?” Gerry says, confused by the sudden urgency in Michael’s voice. “What are you talking about, of course you aren’t repulsive. Look, I- I like you, I promise. It’s just… a lot for me. Everything is… new. Everything.”

Michael frowns, temporarily quelled by the response. “Gerry… are you a virgin?” 

Gerry splutters, and Michael calms further, relaxing into the tease-blush rhythm they’ve built over the weeks. “Uh, y-yes. I- I mean, I haven’t _not_ … um. Gods, Michael, I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Okay, okay, sorry,” Michael says. After a long pause, he leans close to Gerry’s ear, “So am I.”

Michael feels the shiver run through Gerry before he sees the blush on his face intensify. For a long moment neither says another word, and Michael thinks it’s the end of the conversation when Gerry speaks up. “Why?”

“Hm?” Michael hums, having already forgotten what he last said.

“Why, uh, haven’t you…? I mean, sorry, I don’t mean to pry, but. You’re the _prince_ , you could have anyone,” Gerry says. 

“Well, apparently not,” Michael says, raising a pointed eyebrow at the blushing knight. “Besides, I don’t want just anyone. I want it to be special.”

“Would it be special. With me?” Gerry says, voice small. Michael’s heart hurts to hear it. This wonderful brave man, so unsure of himself.

“Yes.” Michael hooks his chin over Gerry’s shoulder and leans his head against the other’s.

“Michael,” Gerry says, voice tight and wobbly. “I’m not- I’m not like you.”

“Yeah?” Michael says, wondering which contrasts he might be referring to, “I know we’re different. That’s alright.”

Gerry’s eyebrows shoot up; an unexpected reaction. “You do?”

“I mean, yes, we are different in many ways… but I don’t care that you didn’t have a similar upbringing to me. I don’t care that we don’t hold the same status. Royals aren’t sexy anyway, they spend all of their time in meetings and fancy balls, no time for cultivating this sweet muscle,” he says, gripping Gerry’s arms and winking.

Gerry laughs, the sound kind of weird and watery, and vaguely disappointed. “I don’t know, Michael, you’re pretty sexy.”

Michael gasps, “Gerry, dear knight, did you just flirt back? Oh, I never thought I’d see the day!”

Gerry squashes a smile, fails, “I thought I might give it a try…”

Michael takes his chances with a kiss on Gerry’s cheek, watching a fresh blush spread from the point of contact. “Gerry…” _I love you_ , he wants to say, “I’m glad it was you. When they picked.”

Gerry glances back at him over his shoulder, meeting his eyes for a moment. “I’m glad it was me, too.” Before Michael can think to ask to kiss him again, Gerry turns his gaze back to the path, and the moment is lost.

*

_“Jon, I… I have to tell you something. But it can wait. It can wait until I get back.”_

It keeps running through Jon’s mind, churning, ceaseless through wake and sleep. What was he going to tell him? What did he _have to_ tell him? Was he in more danger than Jon had thought? Was he scared? Did he feel unsafe? Of course he would: he’s been under threat for weeks now, that’s got to be a heavy piece of knowledge to bear.

What’s eating him is that he thought Michael told him everything. He’s never, _never_ kept anything from him before, especially not something that had sounded so urgent. What is it?

Could it be Gerry? That was his first thought. Did Michael know what Gerry had done for the witch? It couldn’t be Gerry himself causing all this anxiety in Michael, right? Michael would have told him if he ever felt unsafe with the knight. And besides. The look in Gerry’s eyes when the prince had been huddled by the fire, recovering from the shock of the attack? You can’t fake that. Gerry likes the prince at _least_ as much as the prince likes the knight.

The missing scene from Gerry’s transaction with the witch, though. That may be a cause for concern. What on earth could he have done for her? Did he steal something? Did he commit some heinous crime? Was it something minor and not at all worth knowing? Did he _kill_ someone? _He’d seemed desperate enough._ There’s no end to the possibilities.

What if Gerry had, though? What if Gerry had killed another human being for the witch? There’s no guarantee that his victim was a good person. No guarantee they were bad. There’s no guarantee that he’d do it again. No guarantee that he wouldn’t. 

Jon sighs. Gerry isn’t a killer. Jon has seen killers. In his dreams, in real life- he knows what they look like. The knight, with his dark eyes only for the prince, his quiet yearning smile… he isn’t a killer, Jon knows. But his paranoia will not listen until he Knows. 

“Hello?” Martin says from across the table. “Where’ve you gone?”

Jon blinks, lifting his head from where he’d been staring at his half-finished sandwich. “Sorry, what?”

“I was just telling you about the stray cat on the east wall? We’ve been waiting for it to come back for ages, but you’re just… not here. You haven’t been since Michael left. I know you’re worried, Jon, I am, too. But we have to trust the plan. Otherwise, what else do we have?” Martin says, reaching for Jon’s hand, entwining their fingers.

Jon smiles. “I’m sorry, I just have a lot to think about, nothing you need to worry over, though. Please, tell me about the cat. Have you thought up a good name for it, yet?”

Martin watches him for a moment longer, brows gradually unfurrowing. “Well, I was thinking he looks rather like a Percy, what do you think?”

“Hm, Percy’s a good name, I was thinking it looks more like a Joa- ah!” Jon doubles over in pain as an image slices into his mind, jagged and fragmented.

He sees Annabelle, right where she’d been in that abandoned structure the knight had found, silhouette highlighted by bright orange flame. The image jumps and sketches, blurring and jarring and spitting out only a few keywords. Through the confusion, Jon hears ‘attack,’ ‘the prince,’ ‘kill,’ jumbled together, overlapping with unbearable dissonance. The image settles, a restless bird taking rest on its branch long enough to see Annabelle raising an eyebrow and saying, “Can you do that for me?”

Gerry nods, determined, “Yes. Anything.”

The vision fades and Jon is left gasping on the floor, Martin’s concerned face swimming above him. That doesn’t make any sense. Had Annabelle asked him to attack the prince? Had Gerry agreed? What if- a swift wave of nausea gurgles up his throat, and Jon turns just in time to heave a load of bile and partially digested sandwich onto the stone floor beside him- what if it isn’t what Gerry had done that Jon should’ve been agonizing over? But rather what he has vowed to do? What he may be one step closer to doing because of Jon’s stupid, stupid, actions.

“Jon! Are you alright? What happened?” Martin asks, holding his elbow and guiding him to sitting.

Jon clutches onto him, tears stinging his eyes. “Oh gods, what have I done?” he gasps.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading <3  
> Please leave some comments and kudos if you feel like it!  
> And make sure you stick around for the next chapter because the rating may change again... for reasons ;o


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael’s never seen hot springs before. His first encounter with them will surely be very memorable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooh the rating went up, I wonder why…  
> Yeah anyway, this chapter is basically PWP/ porn with feelings, so if you aren’t interested in that there will be a “#” at the beginning of explicit scenes and “##” at the end.  
> For those who will read it- I’m using ‘female-coded’ terminology for Gerry (‘cunt’ and ‘clit’ specifically).
> 
> Content warnings: transphobia mention
> 
> Enjoy <3

Michael wakes up. His body feels slow, heavy, sun-warmed muscle melted to putty by the rays streaming in through the open window, entirely relaxed by the sweet scent of blooming flowers that wafts in alongside. Gerry would never allow his windows open through the night- he mustn’t be in his chambers. The prince lifts his head- he’s somewhere he doesn’t recognise. He rolls over, knocking into a warm shape beside him.

Gerry stirs, lifting his head and pushing the hair out of his face. When he opens his eyes to see Michael he smiles and shifts to wrap an arm around the other man, hugging him close and tucking his face into the crook of his neck. Michael squirms in his grip, giggling at the tickle of hot breath glancing over his skin.

“Morning, beautiful,” Gerry grumbles. “Sleep well?”

Michael hums affirmative and buries his face into Gerry’s soft dark hair, running his fingers through it, trailing his hands down Gerry’s bare back. “You?”

Gerry grunts and looks up at Michael, “How could I sleep when I could be looking at you instead?”

Michael raises an eyebrow, feels his face redden. “That’s kind of creepy, love.”

Gerry levers himself up with an elbow either side of Michael’s waist and leans in close so he can see the green flecks in his eyes. “Maybe so,” he says, and closes the gap between their mouths.

Michael wakes up, jostled by the rough movements of the horses trotting over some uneven rocks beneath him. He squints up into the midday sun, round and bright in a cloudless spring sky, fighting back the wave of disappointment that the dream had not been reality.

He’s getting ahead of himself. Dreaming about waking up with Gerry in his bed? He needs to get a grip and live in the present. The present has so many wonderful things to offer anyway- Gerry blushing, Gerry keeping him warm at night, Gerry making sure he’s safe. He won’t allow himself to take that for granted, no matter how much he’s looking forward to their forbidden life together. 

They are making progress, though. Michael can feel it; something loosening between them, a knot coming untied. Gerry has been opening up to him over the last couple of days, sharing his thoughts and concerns, stories about his past. It stings Michael’s heart to hear of what he’s had to live through, but he’s so proud of this brave knight for allowing himself that vulnerability. 

As he stretches out of the cramped position he’d been in, Michael becomes aware of a low burbling sound, like a stream, but more… animated, accompanied by a low hissing. Over a small ridge just up ahead, there are what look to be columns of steam billowing up into the air, dispersing into the atmosphere just as they reach the canopy above.

Michael is just about to warn Gerry that they might be about to come upon another encampment of people when they crest the ridge and find no one there waiting for them. Michael frowns, peering over the knight’s shoulder to see two large pools of water, easily five times larger than the bath in Michael’s chambers. The water bubbles and churns, eddies twirling about as those twin pillars of steam rise gently through the otherwise dry air.

The prince pats Gerry on the shoulder and points, “What are those?”

Gerry, undisturbed by the strange phenomenon, looks along Michael’s arm. “The hot springs? Have you never seen hot springs before?”

“No?” Michael says, growing more curious with each second that passes, “Stop, stop, I want to check them out.”

Gerry smiles, a little confused. “Alright, then,” and brings the horses to a stop so Michael can jump off and approach them with equal parts excitement and caution. The ground below him starts to slope just before the edge of the first pool; turning from rough shale and limestone to silt and pebbles. The spring itself is large and curving, the far end disappearing under a cluster of overhanging rock. The second is smaller, sits a little higher, one edge forming a lip that a steady stream flows from, rolling down into the pool below.

“Is it hot?” Michael asks, doesn’t wait for an answer, “How?”

“Uh, yeah, they’re hot. I don’t know how it works, something to do with underground heat, but yeah, they’re basically like big outdoor baths,” Gerry explains, watching as Michael leans down to touch the pool, tucking his hair out of his face so Gerry can see his boyish smile as he trails a few tentative fingers through the water. Before he can urge the prince back to the horse so they can continue their journey, the blond stands and starts to unclasp his cloak.

“I’m getting in,” he announces. Gerry is about to protest, but Michael has already tugged his shirt off over his head, revealing his slender, freckle-dotted back. The words die in his throat when he starts in on the buttons of his pants.

“Oh- uh,” Gerry says, getting off the horse. He turns away to give him some privacy, face flaming. “Um, I’m not sure it’s safe to be naked in the middle of the woods, Michael, what-.”

“Why? Are their creatures in the water?” Michael says with no small amount of mockery. “You should come in and protect me from them, brave knight.”

Gerry hears a splash and gives him a moment to submerge himself before turning around. Michael is chest-deep in the water, sculling his hands through it as he sinks lower. The blond spins and smiles at him, beckoning him closer with a dripping finger. Gerry stops a metre from the edge. “Water’s just fine, Gerry.”

“I’m sure it is,” he replies, scuffing his boot into the ground and looking anywhere but the damp hollow of Michael’s freckled collarbone.

“Gerry…” Michael says, looking solemn. “I didn’t want to tell you this, because you couldn’t really help it, but you’ve been getting very stinky and I don’t think you should pass up this opportunity.”

Gerry takes a deep breath, “I don’t know, Michael, I’m not, uh…”

“Come on,” Michael pouts, “It’s like five feet wide. We won’t even touch.”

Gerry’s heart is thumping hard against his ribs, and even this far from the column of steam, he’s begun to sweat. Michael is watching him, one raised eyebrow waiting for an answer. He knows he won’t kick up a fuss if Gerry refuses, he knows he can just sit on the ground and wait until Michael is done. He knows this. But the pool is rather large- Michael is right, they wouldn’t touch. Michael won’t try anything. Not if Gerry doesn’t want him to. And Gerry _has_ been getting rather pungent as of late. Maybe it’s time to bite the bullet and take a bath with Michael.

He swallows hard, releases a shaky breath. “Fine. Turn around.”

Michael’s eyes widen, surprised at this turn of events- Gerry agreeing to something- and turns around, biting down a smile. “Okay, well, tell me when it’s okay.”

Gerry chews on his lip, heart jackhammering as he strips off his armour. This is stupid. Just a few more days and they’ll be at the northern stronghold, where Gerry can clean up in private and not have to watch out for any threats in the process. He pulls off his boots, pants, shirt. It’s fine, though. Gerry hasn’t spotted any suspicious activity since they left, and it’s been a long time since he’s enjoyed a hot spring. He’s down to his undershirt, which hangs open at the chest and falls almost to his knees. Nothing visible. He should be safe in this.

The knight steps into the water- it’s hot enough to feel sharp against his cold skin as he enters. The shirt billows up around him when the water reaches his hips, and he shoves it back down in a panic. It is lovely though, Michael hadn’t been lying, so he takes a moment to duck under the water, scrub his face free of its accumulated grime. 

“Okay,” he says, and Michael turns around before the word has fully left his mouth.

He feels the blood rise to his face under Michael’s returned gaze, but he can blame that on the steam. “Well don’t you clean up nice.”

A shiver runs through Gerry at the words, despite the heat around them. He averts his eyes, not able to bear the hungry expression on the prince’s face for a second longer. “So…” he starts, retreating to the opposite edge of the pool, “You’ve really never seen hot springs before? I thought royalty was supposed to be well travelled.”

Michael leans back against his side of the spring, “Hm, yeah, I guess. But usually, when we go anywhere it’s just to another castle. I haven’t really been outside much, like, ever. We did go way down south once when I was a kid, and it snowed there, that was pretty cool.”

Gerry allows himself a small smile at the excitement on the other man’s face as he recalls the memory. He loves it when the conversation turns to something the prince likes; soaks in the brightness of his grey eyes and the animation of his delicate, long-fingered hands.

“Could you… I mean if you want… you could come a little closer?” Michael says, switching tacks when he catches Gerry staring.

Gerry swallows again, heart rate picking up from where it had hesitantly settled. He’s in control. He won’t give in. He’s got the power here, anything he doesn’t want to do, they won’t do. So what if there’s less space between them? Gerry has enough self-control to- to, uhh, control himself. Yeah. Definitely. He drifts closer, edging around the pool until he’s less than a metre from Michael, sitting on what feels like a natural shelf of rock.

Michael shuffles along the seat, biting his lip, “Why the shirt?”

“Oh, uh,” Gerry plucks at it under the water, “I’m just a bit self-conscious, you know? I have a- a lot of scars.”

Michael leans his head back against the rock, “Oh. Well, I think you’re beautiful. Are you worried about me judging you, or something?”

Gerry thinks about his body for a flash of a moment, all the things wrong with it, all the ways it isn’t what it should be. “Uh, I suppose, yes.”

“Hm,” Michael hums, brings a hand up out of the water, trails it along Gerry’s shoulder. “Is this okay?”

Gerry is sweating hard now, and it’s definitely, totally, completely because of the hot water, no other reason. “Y-yeah,” he nods.

“You can leave it on,” Michael says, “But you don’t need to.”

Gerry nods again, watches raptly as Michael moves a little closer, heart pounding against his ribs. He should back up, detach the prince’s hand from where it’s fiddling with the collar of his shirt. But all he wants is for Michael to keep touching him like that.

“Can I kiss you?” Michael asks.

#

Gerry’s brain cracks a little. It isn’t the first time he’s heard that. But it is the first time he’s been naked with another man in any capacity. The thought of anything that intimate is everything Gerry wants and can’t have. It’s just kissing, it won’t lead anywhere, he tells himself. Michael won’t find anything, it’s fine, he can stop at any point.

Michael continues, “Of course, you don’t ha-.”

Gerry surges forward and kisses Michael; wet, chapped lips crushing hard against his. The blond gasps, hands splashing up out of the water to cup the sides of Gerry’s face, bringing him closer, not willing to give this up for as long as he might have it. Michael’s breath rushes out all at once through his nose as he kisses back, cold against Gerry’s damp skin. The kiss is sloppy, uncoordinated. Gerry can’t get enough.

He shuffles somehow nearer still, tilts his head for a better angle, swipes his tongue across the seam of Michael’s lips. The hands on the side of the knight’s head slip back as his mouth opens, sliding into Gerry’s dark hair and tangling tight, tugging him right into Michael’s space. Gerry licks into Michael’s mouth and the prince moans, sucking on Gerry’s tongue. Gerry’s breathing is rough through his nose, hands still clenched in his shirt, holding it down over his lap.

Michael pulls away, mouth open, eyes shut. “You can touch me if you want.”

A strong thrum of arousal vibrates through Gerry’s body at the request, curling low in his abdomen. He carefully unwinds his hands from the shirt, brings them up to Michael’s sweet face. The prince opens his eyes, grey irises swallowed by the growing expanse of pupil, and he kisses Gerry once more, lips slow and hot, sucking gently on his bottom lip as Gerry lets his hands wander lower. Fingers slip over the prince’s chest, thumbs catching on his nipples. Gerry groans as Michael bites on his lower lip and retaliates by rolling Michael’s left nipple between his thumb and forefinger, earning a soft whimper.

Gerry presses a line of kisses across Michael’s cheek and jaw, slowing to a stop just under his ear so he can suck on the tender skin there. Michael moans, and the water ripples as he bucks up into it, catching no friction. Gerry draws a harsh breath in at the spike of arousal coursing through his veins. He’s painfully hard; oh, he knew this was a bad idea. But stopping sounds even worse right now, as Michael continues to hum those pretty little whines and gasps into the steamy air around them.

He dips his hands further down, letting go of Michael’s nipple and drawing him closer by the waist. He slips around, one hand on his hip and the other exploring low enough to grab a handful of Michael’s ass and squeeze. Michael shouts in surprise, the sound trailing off into a giggle, thigh flush against Gerry’s

Gerry moves away at the sudden pressure on his shoulders, Michael holding him at bay with dark eyes, red cheeks, pink lips. “Can I sit on you?”

Bad idea. Bad idea. Also the best idea Gerry’s ever heard. He nods wordlessly, feeling about as wrecked as Michael looks. Michael swings a leg over Gerry’s, settles himself in his lap, and returns his hands to Gerry’s hair, pulling him forward into another kiss.

Oh shit, okay. No, this is fine, it’s fine.

Gerry pulls him forward a little, feeling the blond’s thighs part around his own, the weight of him feeling so good, it pulls all the breath out of his lungs. Gerry’s never been so hard in his life, clit throbbing between his legs, begging to be rubbed, touched, anything, hole aching to be filled. He’s got to ignore it.

Maybe if he just focuses on Michael- he pulls him forward even further, feels his hard cock pressing between his belly and Michael’s hips, twitching against the fabric of his shirt. Michael makes a small, aborted noise in the back of his throat and bucks into him, cock coming close to brushing a nipple through the shirt. Gerry moans at the feel of it, at the idea that someone might be so aroused by his touch.

“I want,” Michael starts, voice high and breathy, “I want to touch you, please, oh.” His hands wander down, skimming over his sides, dipping low past Michael’s knees either side of him, toward where Gerry is desperate to have them; wants to hump against his palm, fuck down onto his fingers. Michael’s thumbs press into his hips, a hand curling into the bottom of the shirt, tugging up.

Oh, gods, _yes_. Wait, no. No, that can’t happen, oh shit-

##

“Stop!” He shouts. Michael stutters back off of his lap with a yelp, tipping back into the water with a subdued splash. Gerry’s breath catches up with him all in a rush, coming in short choppy gasps. Oh, fuck, what is he doing?

Michael comes up spluttering, words pouring out of his mouth before he’s even wiped the hair and water out of his face, “I’m so sorry, oh gods, I must have misread, and, did I hurt you? Oh, Gerry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to, I- fuck, are you crying? Oh, godss-.”

Gerry wipes hastily at his face, “No, I-.” 

“Oh no,” Michael says, running his hands over his face, “What have I done? I’m so sorry, Gerry, I didn’t mean to hurt you, or push too far, I thought- fuck. I thought you wanted it, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have pushed.”

Gerry watches, stunned, as Michael works himself into an anxious frenzy, tears bubbling up and slipping down his flushed cheeks. Gerry’s still wiping at his own face, but the shock of seeing Michael so upset jars him out of it. “No, Michael, you didn’t hurt me, I swear. I wanted this, I _do_ want this, I just. Fuck, I’m sorry, I screwed this up.”

Gerry knows he should just leave it alone. He took his chances on his self-control and it didn’t work out. He should be grateful he had the wherewithal to stop when he did and move on. But seeing Michael this upset is somehow not something he can just let be, and he is still aching to be close to him.

“I- I didn’t hurt you?” Michael says, blinking water and tears alike out of his eyes. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, Michael, I’m fine, I promise,” Gerry replies, splashing some water onto his face. Gods, it’s so hot in here.

“Then I overstepped, didn’t I? Shit, I’m so sorry, Gerry, I should’ve asked,” Michael says, flapping his hands a little, unsure how to fix what he thinks he’s done.

“No, Michael, it wasn’t you,” Gerry says, wading through the almost unbearably warm water toward him. Michael had moved away in his panic, putting distance between himself and who he thought he’d wronged. “It’s not you, it’s me, I promise.”

Michael’s brows pinch together, chest fluttering with a shaky breath, and he searches Gerry’s eyes. Not finding any answers, he steps closer, brings a hand up to touch Gerry’s shoulder, “Then what? Just what is it that you think is so terrible about you? I like you, Gerry, and correct me if I’m wrong, but I think you like me, too. Whatever it is- whatever you think is so wrong and bad, it isn’t. I promise you- you’re beautiful an-and good, no matter what.”

He’s scared- there’s no getting around that. If he submits himself to this mortifying ordeal of being known, he could be killed. But Michael looks so earnest, like all he wants is for Gerry to know that he’s worth something, that maybe he could be loved… just the way he is. Who knows? Maybe Gerry’s been overreacting this whole time. Maybe the consequences won’t be as extreme as he’d thought. Maybe there’ll be some jail time, and that’s it. That won’t be so bad. Sure, he won’t get to collect the other half of his agreement with Annabelle, but at least he won’t be _dead_.

He looks at Michael, his hair tangled and swept back from his tumble into the water, grey eyes still a little red. His fingers are gentle where they stroke over Gerry’s shoulder, not pulling, not pushing, just waiting. There’s only one thing he needs to ask himself: Am I willing to take a chance on this man?

Gerry thinks back to what Annabelle had said about finding what he needed to learn through others, through connection. Maybe…

“Hold on,” Gerry says, heart pounding. He’d never thought taking his shirt off might be a matter of life and death. The thought is almost hysterical. “Close your eyes.”

Michael frowns, but nods and does as he’s told, blond lashes fluttering shut. Gerry takes the hand from his shoulder, lets it fall back into the water. He takes his shirt off and throws it to the edge of the pool. It hits the ground with a wet slap, and Michael’s frown deepens for a moment at the sound before Gerry brings his hands back to his body.

“Can I…?” Michael asks.

“N- uh, not yet. Can I put your hands on my chest?”

“Yeah,” Michael says. Gerry watches his eyes dart around behind his eyelids.

Gerry lifts the hands, soft, slim, well-manicured, and places them on his chest, pushing down a gasp at the touch. Michael doesn’t bother to hide his own pleased hum. Gerry moves his hands down, lets Michael’s fingers brush over the scars the witch had left, the tips of them wandering over the ridged flesh. Michael cocks his head to the side but keeps his eyes closed.

“You have scars? Is that what you were worried about? You know I have scars, too; one time I burnt my wrist when I was- oh, but that’s for another time. These are pretty long; they must have hurt quite a bit a- oh. Wait. _Oh._ ”

The spike of fear that lances through Gerry as he hears and sees Michael realise what the scars mean is entirely unparalleled. There’s no going back now. He can’t undo this- whatever Michael does now decides his fate. Gerry is shaking.

“Can I open my eyes?” Michael asks.

Trembling, Gerry nods, realises Michael can’t see him, and mutters a quiet, “Yes.”

Michael blinks, gaze fixing down to his chest where his fingers still run over the scars, just above the waterline. “Yeah,” Michael says, “These are like Martin’s. You’re trans, is that it?”

Gerry gasps as Michael says it out loud, tears prickling behind his eyes.

Michael looks up at the sound, the curious, reverent expression on his face melting into concern, pinched brows and pursed lips. “That’s it? Wait… Gerry…” Michael brings a hand up to cup Gerry’s face, grey eyes welling with tears once more, “Gerry, do you think this isn’t allowed? Have you thought that this whole time? Did you think… do you think I wouldn’t accept you?”

Gerry breathes slowly, shakily out through his nose, doesn’t notice the tears drip off his chin, and hit the water below. “A-Am I allowed?”

Michael brings his other hand up to his chin, tilts it up to look him in the eye. “Gerry, of _course_ you are.” 

Relief like Gerry’s never felt floods his senses, leaving him trembling in its wake. He isn’t going to get himself killed by being who he is. He’s almost dizzy with the revelation, doesn’t even spare a second of anger toward his mother who’d told him all those horror stories of outcasts and hate; made him believe he had to hide from everyone he might come to love.

Michael runs his thumb over Gerry’s cheekbone, wiping the tears away from his already damp cheek, “I’m so sorry I didn’t realise- didn’t realise that you didn’t know. I’m so sorry. Can I hug you?”

Gerry lets out a choked little sob and presses himself flush against Michael’s chest, so, so relieved to feel the prince’s arms wrap tight around him. Gerry crams his face into Michael’s throat and cries for a long moment, lip trembling every time he tries to stop. Michael is making gentle shushing noises above him, fingers trailing through his hair, over his shuddering back.

“Did you say,” Gerry starts, hiccupping, “that Martin is like me?”

Michael nods, cheek rubbing against Gerry’s hair, “Yeah. Ever since I’ve known him. Everyone knows, Jon, obviously, Mum, some of the kitchen staff. It’s not something people are afraid of anymore, mostly. It’s not- it’s fine, you’re wonderful, and I’m so sorry you felt you had to hide.”

Fuck, Gerry loves this man. Oh, he shouldn’t be thinking like that, he- No, you know what? _Fuck it_. It’s been a hard day. His whole worldview has just been fucked over and he does not have the energy to be policing his thoughts. He fucking loves this man.

Gerry pulls back from the embrace, places a hand at the back of Michael’s neck and hauls him down to smash their lips together. Michael gasps, and presses closer, hands scratching a little harder into Gerry’s back.

The knight breaks away for just a moment, “Do you still want me? I understand if-.”

“Yes,” Michael says, planting a hard kiss to his lips, “Fuck yes. However long you’ll have me.”

#

Gerry sighs into another kiss, opening his mouth to Michael’s tongue as he guides him back toward the natural shelf. Michael leans in close, tugging Gerry’s earlobe in between his lips and slipping his hands down to grope Gerry’s ass, squeezing it tight in his slim fingers. Gerry grunts and reels Michael in, feels the blond’s cock start to harden against his hip once more.

Michael stops kissing down his neck for a moment to ask, “I- uh, I don’t know how to- with…” he squeezes Gerry’s ass again.

“Oh, um, I’ll show you. May I-.”

“Yes.”

Gerry chuckles, “Well, okay, um,” he pushes on Michael’s shoulders until he’s sitting on the shelf and clambers into his lap, a knee on either side of the thinner man’s hips. The slick insides of Gerry’s thighs rub against the fine-haired skin of Michael’s, and arousal floods hot and fresh down to his swelling clit. He bites down on a moan, fights against the urge to rut against the prince’s leg. He fumbles for Michael’s hand, lifts it from where it’d been trailing along his arm.

“Can I use your hand?” Gerry winces at how breathy he sounds.

“Yes,” Michael says, licking his lips.

Gerry spreads his thighs, leads the hand down, directs two fingers to his clit. When Michael’s soft, hot fingers rub across him, he jerks involuntarily forward, humping against it. Before he can apologise for being so eager, Michael reels him in by the back of the neck with his free hand and kisses him hard, more teeth than tongue, and Gerry has to fight from coming right then and there.

“Fuck, you’re so hot,” Michael moans, rubbing his fingers experimentally around Gerry’s clit, circling, exploring. Gerry groans again and hides his face in Michael’s shoulder. He guides Michael’s fingers further back, trembles as they dip into his cunt. He slips one in and out a few times, shallow until he can take more, and moves Michael’s thumb to his throbbing clit.

“Like that, okay?” Gerry says, mouthing wet kisses along Michael’s flushed throat.

“Uh-huh,” Michael says, panting, “could you, um, touch me? If you want, I mean.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Gerry babbles, releasing Michael’s hand, letting it do the work- so fucking well, Gerry can’t believe he didn’t give in earlier- and closes his around Michael’s hot cock.

“ _Ah_ ,” Michael gasps, “Gerry, gods, you’re perfect.” He bucks up into Gerry’s grip, distracting the knight from anything else but the hot, slick slide of cock in the circle of his fingers. Michael quickens the pace inside Gerry, two fingers stroking the walls of his cunt.

Gerry moans again, ruts down harder onto Michael’s hand. “Talk to me,” he says, vice-like grip on Michael’s shoulder not relaxing even the slightest. The pleasure is mounting faster and faster as Michael works his slim fingers deeper into him, thumb still pressing and swiping against his clit.

“Godss, Gerry, you’re so beautiful, I want you so bad,” Michael mumbles, kissing Gerry’s ear sending tiny thrills down his spine as he continues thrusting into Gerry’s hand.

“What do you want?” Gerry asks, breathless. He lifts his heavy head to kiss Michael’s jaw, squeezes a little harder on an upstroke, feels the vibration of Michael’s moan through his chest.

“Ah! Mm, I want- I want your fingers in me, I want you to fuck me hard until I come, I want, oh, Gerry, I’m close,” Michael breathes, hips losing rhythm, “Gods, I want you to use me, I want what you want. Tell me what you want.”

Gerry swallows a yelp, turns it into a moan as Michael accompanies his words with a slight curling of his fingers. Gerry grinds down onto them, feeling the edge fast approaching, that hot pleasure climbing up inside him, ready to spill out. “M-Michael I want you. I want to sit on your face, wanna fuck you so bad, I want- I want you to make me come, want you to come down my throat.”

“Oh, my- _fuck_ ,” Michael squeaks, hand driving hard up into Gerry and staying there, twisting into that spot inside him as the prince’s hips stutter out of control. Gerry gasps as Michael’s cock twitches in his hand as he comes into the water. Gerry continues rocking down into Michael’s long fingers, still chasing that edge but content for the moment to watch Michael ride out his orgasm, soft pink lips open wide in a silent moan, blond lashes fluttering shut.

“H- have you?” Michael asks, starting to move his fingers again at Gerry’s pace.

“No, I’m close, keep going,” Gerry says, brings Michael’s face forward into a kiss as his hand picks up speed, three fingers fucking fast into his cunt, palm sliding through the slick folds as the thumb presses against his clit.

Michael wraps his other arm around Gerry’s waist, brings him closer. The new angle pushes his fingers deeper into him, and Michael brings his lips to Gerry’s ear, “Is that good?” he whispers, voice low.

Gerry whines, the pleasure burning white-hot through his veins. He’s so close, “Yes, godss, fuck.”

“Can you come like this?” Michael asks, scrapes his teeth along the edge of his jaw.

“Y-yes, just a little more,” he pants.

Michael draws him closer still, pulling Gerry up on his knees so that he’s just out of the water, quickening his pace, fingering Gerry hard and fast. The noises it makes are obscene; Gerry’s panting mixed with the wet squelch of Michael’s fingers inside him. Michael sighs into his ear, “Come for me, handsome.”

Gerry pumps his hips down fast into Michael’s fingers, clamps his hand down over Michael’s, flattens the blond’s thumb hard against his clit, and comes; orgasm crashing into him hard as Michael finger-fucks him through it. He groans loud as he rides it out, pressing his face into Michael’s neck. When he’s too sensitive for touch, Michael slips his hand out and guides Gerry to rest back down in Michael’s lap, breaking the surface of the water with a soft splash.

“Michael,” Gerry breathes, trailing his hands up and down Michael’s sides, enjoying the shiver that runs through the other man and the way his thighs twitch from exertion.

##

Michael lifts a hand, hooks a finger under Gerry’s chin and tilts it up. He kisses him, lips soft and wet and red from the heat and friction. Gerry’s heart thrums with new life. In all of his wildest dreams, he never would have seen this coming. Or at least, he never would have thought it would end this way.

“Can we make camp here for tonight?” Michael asks, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against Gerry’s. “If I have to get back on that horse I might just die.”

“Yeah, I… me too. Oh, shit, the horses,” Gerry goes to stand, legs still a little wobbly, but Michael stops him with a hand on his hip.

“Gerry, I- I’m so sorry that I pushed so far. I didn’t know what you were dealing with, but I should’ve seen something was wrong, I’m sorry,” Michael says, fingers dancing on Gerry’s waist, looking at him earnestly, lip drawn between his teeth in a way that, for once, isn’t trying to be sexy.

Gerry plants a slow kiss on his forehead, draws him into a hug, awkward due to their position. “It’s alright- really. You didn’t know, how could you? I’ve spent my whole life trying to hide this and if you’d known right away, I honestly would’ve been pretty disappointed in myself. And in any case, it isn’t your fault that my mother led me to believe that- that everything I am is wrong.”

Michael kisses his chest, nuzzles into it, “Still, I… I’m sorry that you didn’t know how beautiful you are. How perfect.”

Gerry blinks back a fresh wave of tears and presses another kiss to Michael’s hair. “Lunchtime, then?”

Michael nods, “Yeah. Lunch.”

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so much for reading! Comments and kudos are always welcome ;w;
> 
> if there's anything you think needs its own content warning or tag please let me know!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon leaves to find Annabelle, Michael and Gerry reach the stronghold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the amazing comments they really mean so much to me <3  
> This chapter contains very explicit content, so again if you want to skip, that scene will start with "#" and end with "##" (and again, for those who do read, I use "female-coded" terminology for Gerry)
> 
> Content Warnings for mentions of death.
> 
> Enjoy ;)

“You’re sure you’ll be alright on your own?” Martin asks, tugging at one of the straps of the saddle.

Jon reaches over to still his lover’s fidgeting hand. The man looks up, chewing on his lip. “Martin, I’ll be fine. I promise. Besides, we have bigger things to worry about.”

Martin nods, then gives a dejected shake of his head, “Yeah, don’t remind me.”

They look away from each other. Things have been tense throughout the castle since Jon’s most recent episode. “I just…” Jon starts, turning back to his lover, “I thought he was a good guy. I feel terrible, I mean, what if… Fuck.”

Martin turns his hand over and tightens his hold on him, “We all did. You did nothing wrong; you couldn’t have known.”

“That’s the thing, though,” Jon says, “I _could_ have! If I just looked further, tried _harder_ , I could have seen this coming.”

Jon hasn’t slept since he’d seen those splinters of Gerry and Annabelle’s encounter. They were but words; fragments of sentences that could have meant anything put into the right context. But Jon can’t take that chance. As much as Gerry had seemed a wonderful young man and a worthy suitor for the prince, Jon can’t rest, can’t stop, until he knows the truth.

He’s spent every free moment searching for the witch, straining himself beyond his limits to See where she could be hiding. Martin has been organising a party to take up to the northern stronghold to isolate the knight from the prince, keep him retained until further information is uncovered.

That’s the plan, anyway. But Jon feels he’s made a misstep somewhere. Several in fact, but relaying what he’d seen to the Queen- which had sent her into a fit of rage the likes of which Jon had never seen- takes the cake. Her fury is unparalleled, and as much as it appears he may have been planning something despicable, Jon feels even the potentially traitorous knight doesn’t deserve the fate that is waiting for him in Winona’s custody. 

Jon could be right, or he could be wrong. Either outcome will leave his hands stained red. It’s been a while since he’s been caught between a rock and hard place so unflinching as these.

“I’m sorry, Jon, I didn’t mean it like that,” Martin says, brows pinched together over the round frames of his glasses, “No one blames you for this, I’m sure of that. Just get there fast, alright? Before things get out of hand. I, uh, I need to get the party in order.”

Jon nods, and watches as Martin starts to turn away, but stops himself. “I hope you’re wrong. But if you’re right, I only wish we aren’t too late.”

“Don’t say that,” Jon says, reflex opening his mouth and breaking his voice before he can think to catch it, “we won’t be. We can’t be, I couldn’t bear it, I-.”

“I know, I know, Jon,” Martin says quickly, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be so morbid. But we need to be prepared.”

Jon sighs, heaving in a big stabilising breath, trying to dispel the tears in his eyes. “What-,” he clears his throat, “What will we do with him? Once we get them back here.”

“Whatever the queen sees fit,” Martin says, expression darkening.

A cold rush of fear floods Jon’s system. If he doesn’t get to the witch and figure out what happened soon, he will be responsible for the death of an innocent man. Either the prince at the hands of the traitor or the knight under the queen’s righteous blade.

He nods jerkily, “Right. I’ll be seeing you then.”

“Good luck,” Martin steps away, “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Jon digs a heel into the horse’s hindquarters and starts at a trot in the direction of Gerry’s childhood town snuggled deep in the western villages.

*

Michael chews on a piece of toast, enjoying the taste of jam thick on his tongue and the crunch of bread between his teeth. He’s quite missed breakfast that isn’t an apple and some jerky.

As much as he’d loved travelling with Gerry, (no, honestly, after the hot springs, the few days they had left to be alone together were complete bliss) being back in the safety of shelter is a welcome relief. The stronghold itself is plain and unassuming, once a quaint town to stop in between destinations, it’s been transformed under Winona’s rule to hold fast against any attack from the northern kingdoms. Guards and knights file through the streets, taking their leave from slouching by the gates and in the towers to drown the dull day behind them in ale at the local taverns.

At first glance, the place hadn’t been much to look at, militarised beyond recognition and lacking any sort of life, and on second, it was still wholly unremarkable. But the lodgings were comfortable and warm, perfectly functional, with real sheets and latched windows, its own bathroom, and a lock on the door. Michael had been given a large room, and another for his knight, right across the hall. Suffice to say he had left it untouched at the prince’s request.

The breakfast in bed is unexpected yet delightful, and Michael settles back against the pillows with the tray across his lap. Yeah, Michael much prefers this to the open road. Not to mention, most everything that he’d liked about the travel is still right here in bed.

Gerry is lying on his stomach beside him, face pressed into the pillow, mouth open as he drools over the soft cotton. Michael uses a delicate pinkie to brush the curtain of dark hair out of his face, and his eyelashes flutter where they lay, long and dark against his tan skin. Michael lets his eyes wander over the muscle of his bare back, down to wear his body disappears under the sheets, grey shadow of the rainy window undulating across his shoulders.

Michael is so lucky. He’s sitting in a fire-warmed room, safe from harm, with the love of his life sleeping soundly beside him, eating breakfast in bed. He doesn’t even have to worry about his duties to the kingdom for at least another week- there’s no telling how much time they’ll let pass before deeming it safe enough to bring him home.

He barely contains a wiggle of pure contentment as he thinks about how well it all turned out. It could have all been vastly different. Michael still feels terrible for pushing so far at the hot springs. He’s sure Gerry didn’t do anything he didn’t want to, but the guilt of forcing him out of the closet- however accidental it was- is nagging at him. He’d thought Gerry was shy, perhaps unreasonably self-conscious about his scars. He supposes that _was_ part of it, but he couldn’t have known where the root of his insecurities laid. Nevertheless, as well as it went, it could have played out better.

At least maybe now that Gerry has let him in, he might learn to see himself as perfect and natural and lovable as Michael does.

Michael is broken out of his reverie by an arm circling his waist, Gerry pulling himself closer and pressing his face into Michael’s hip with a sleepy sigh.

“I hope you aren’t getting any crumbs in the bed,” Gerry grumbles, fingers catching and toying with the edge of the loose shift Michael had donned after Gerry had fucked him breathless last night.

“At least we _have_ a bed,” Michael retorts but shifts the tray closer on his lap so he can bite over it instead of over the sheets.

Gerry hums and pulls himself up so that he can hook his chin over Michael’s shoulder and lean his head against the prince’s. This was something that Michael hadn’t been expecting. As much as he’d loved to imagine it, he’d never actually thought that Gerry would be quite so cuddly. Not wanting to take any of this for granted, he shuffles back into Gerry, pressing against the knight’s chest and nuzzling into the juncture where his shoulder meets his throat. This kind of indulgence might just be a honeymoon-phase type deal, Michael hypothesises, so he is quite happy to treat himself while it lasts.

Michael slides the tray aside as Gerry starts to kiss along his shoulder and up his neck, nipping at his slow pulse as Michael shivers against his teeth. He reaches around to stop him, taking the knight’s face in hand and slotting their mouths together. Gerry’s lips are cool and chapped, but soon warm up under Michael’s affections. Gerry smiles into it as Michael swipes eagerly at the seam of his lips, and pushes him away with gentle hands.

Gerry lifts a hand to brush some hair out of Michael’s face, circling a finger around his ear and leaning their foreheads together with a soft smile. “How are you on this fine morning, Your Highness?”

Michael had hated for Gerry to call him that, an ever-present reminder of (what he thought was) the reason why Gerry had been distancing himself. The formal moniker had always itched at him, whispered to him about all the things he’d be responsible for in the future, all the things he couldn’t have because he’d be busy keeping his kingdom alive and running. Now the teasing tone in Gerry’s voice as he says it sends a pleasant shiver down Michael’s spine and brings a grin to his face as he leans into Gerry’s calloused hands.

“I’m great. Better, with you. I kind of miss the freedom of being on the road, though. It was nice, near the end, you know. It warmed up a little, and you stopped being so afraid to hold me at night, to kiss me whenever you wanted,” Michael says.

Gerry blushes: another thing that Michael is terribly glad didn’t stop once they got their shit together. If Gerry’s face had stopped growing red at every touch and compliment, stopped turning to hide a wide smile at something stupid Michael said once they’d been together, well that’d be a high price to pay. What shocks Michael now is how his own face grows hot under Gerry’s attention. The knight had come out of his shell, taking Michael by surprise with kisses and caresses and whispered praises. Michael just doesn’t know what to do with himself under all this new confidence.

“Mm,” Gerry hums, dark eyes dropping momentarily to Michael’s lips before he presses a kiss to his cheek, fingernails rasping up under Michael’s shift, following the knobs of his spine, “But _you_ could kiss _me_ whenever you want. No one’s going to stop the prince. But I know what you mean- there’s a certain… sense of peace, that comes with living in nature for a while.”

Michael sighs, drops his forehead to Gerry’s shoulder, shuffling closer still, “Being here, as comfortable and accommodating as it is, it’s all just one big reminder that I’ll have to go back eventually, face the music. Sit in stuffy offices and pretend to know how to do things I hate doing and ignoring my mother glaring a hole in my head for not being as good as her.”

And the fact of this eventuality is starting to sink in. The plan could still work. Michael has apparently succeeded in seducing Gerry, much to- it seems- their mutual contentment. But it doesn’t feel right to ask him to take him away. Not anymore. He feels bad enough as it is, manipulating Gerry as he had been. He doesn’t know if he could live with himself if Gerry took him away, and they were found, and something happened to him. He can’t fathom that he was even willing to put someone in that much danger before now, especially someone as bright and worthy as Gerry.

He’s done a lot of thinking over the past couple of days. He doesn’t want to be king. He knows that. He won’t be good at it, he doesn’t want to do it, that’s the long and short of it. But if he had to, maybe it would be a little more bearable if he had someone by his side. Someone to hold at night, a shoulder to cry on when things got to be too much. That’s the only feasible alternative to making a new life somewhere else, Michael thinks. An alternative he might have to take if he wants to keep Gerry safe.

“What if you didn’t have to?” Gerry asks, still running his hands up and down Michael’s back, one skirting up into his hair and carding through it.

Michael lifts his head in surprise, mind having moved on from what he’d said, Gerry’s words not seeming to fit. “Didn’t have to what?”

“Face the music. Pretend to be a king one day. What if you didn’t have to?” Gerry says, looking down as he continues to stroke through Michael’s tangled curls.

Michael pushes down the glimmer of hope and excitement rising in his belly. This might not be what he thinks it is. “I’m listening.”

Gerry takes a deep breath, searches Michael’s eyes for a moment, turns his gaze back to where he’s plucking idly at the sheets, “We could just… not go back.”

Michael holds back a grin, lets it shine through a little so Gerry can see it. Yes, he’s willing to live a stressful yet paradoxically dull life as the king when it comes to it. If that’s what it takes to keep Gerry safe. But now that Gerry is _offering_. Well, it has always been hard to say no to the knight. “Could you… be a little more specific, darling?”

Gerry’s smile grows bright for a split second at the pet name before he stifles it to say, “Well, there’s a week’s worth of land between here and the castle. When we are called back, we could just… turn east, southwest, any direction you want, and just go until we hit someplace better for you… for us. I don’t know…”

Michael stares at him for a second, thrilled to stalling at what Gerry is proposing. Gerry blinks at the blank response and opens his mouth to back-track, “I mean, you would have to leave your family behind, and I would never ask you to do that, and I realise all of this is operating on the assumption that you’d even want to spend your happily ever after with me, but-.”

“Yes,” Michael raises a finger to Gerry’s rambling lips. “I would love to run away with you.”

Gerry breathes a slow exhale, trying and failing to hide his relief, “I mean, the choice is yours. Whatever you want to do, I’ll be by your side, uh, that is of course if you want me…?”

Michael shakes his head, a fond smile spreading across his face as he loops his arms more securely around Gerry’s shoulders, “Gerry. I want to be with you. Don’t doubt it for a second. Can I kiss you now?”

#

Gerry’s head bobbles hastily in response, and Michael cuts off the smile that grows on his lips with a strong kiss, burying his hands in the knight’s dark locks. Gerry sighs into it, gathers Michael closer with an arm around his waist and a hand under his thigh. Michael goes easy, sliding into the knight’s lap and deepening the kiss. The position is a little awkward with Michael’s height, but neither could care less as Gerry answers with an open-mouthed moan and wandering hands slipping back up under the shift and palming his ass. Feeling his strong fingers dig into the flesh there, Michael lets loose a soft whine, pushing forward against Gerry’s body as arousal begins to flood his system and his cock stirs with interest.

Gerry kisses him once more on the lips before travelling south down Michael’s throat, licking along his pulse, and biting down on a constellation of freckles on his neck. Michael gasps at the shock of pleasure that Gerry’s blunt teeth bring and ruts into the knight’s stomach, cock already hard, lifting the hem of the shift and leaving a growing wet spot on the sheer fabric.

“Is that alright?” Gerry asks, mouthing over the place he’d bitten, laving his hot tongue over the sensitive skin.

“Ah. Yes, of course,” Michael responds with a keening moan, tangles his fingers in Gerry’s hair to bring him up for another fierce kiss.

Gerry hums, hauling Michael closer still by the ass, giving it one last firm squeeze before he wraps his hands in the hem of Michael’s shirt and lifts it over his head. Michael follows, raising his arms until the garment is off, dropping them again to skim over Gerry’s chest, fingers skittering over his peaked nipples. Gerry kisses Michael’s sternum, sucking softly, kissing lower and lower. Michael’s breath hitches as he watches Gerry continue down, slow as he pleases, beautiful dark lashes fluttering closed with every peck.

Gerry lays Michael down across the bed, sets him gently atop the sheets so he can traverse downward still, fingers dancing along Michael’s belly and thighs as he goes. He dips his tongue into Michael’s navel, glancing up at him through his lashes. Michael’s hips jump at the sight, Gerry taking so much pleasure in just appreciating his body, his cock trapped between his thighs and Gerry’s bare chest.

Gerry presses a kiss to his stomach and moves down, nuzzles his hip, bites it, kisses it once, all at his chosen pace of leisure. Michael whines and unwraps a hand from the sheets to play with Gerry’s long hair, not pushing, just waiting.

“Did you want something, Michael?” Gerry asks, smiling against his flushed skin.

Michael gasps, forces his hips still, “Gerry… please touch me, I’m not above begging, you know.”

Gerry hums, smirk growing, and moves over to where Michael’s cock is leaking against his stomach, painfully hard and flushed pink. Gerry regards it for a moment, eyes darker than Michael’s ever seen them, and takes it in his hand, long fingers encircling it with ease. He doesn’t stroke, and Michael ruts into his hand, chasing that friction. Gerry raises an eyebrow at him, before positioning his mouth over the head and licking a slow stripe over the slit with the flat of his tongue.

Michael moans, high and loud, and claps a hand over his mouth to contain it. It isn’t like it hadn’t been obvious what was going on between the two of them to every single man, woman, and knight in this village, but he’d at least like to keep their private activities to themselves.

“No, no,” Gerry says, reaching up to take the offending hand from Michael’s face and pulling it back down, kissing it. “Want to hear you. But if you must have something in your mouth…” he reaches up with the hand not otherwise occupied and places two fingers against Michael’s parted lips. Michael lets his lips slip further open and welcomes them into his mouth, sucking, swirling his tongue around them.

One thing Michael had not been expecting was Gerry’s confidence in their intimacy once they were both naked. Clothed, riding toward the stronghold, Michael pressed against his back, he was all blushes and bashful smiles. Lying against those furs in front of the dying fire in starless night, he’d known what he wanted once he knew he was allowed to have it. It doesn’t seem like that’s changed, back in civilization, and Michael is glad of it.

Gerry takes his time drinking in the sight of Michael sucking on his fingers before returning to the cock in his hand, kissing the head, then slipping it into his mouth. Michael keens around the fingers, the heat of his tongue and the soft inside of Gerry’s mouth sending bolts of pleasure singing into his blood. The knight lowers his head further, bobbing and taking more and more with each down-thrust. With a muffled moan, Michael’s hands fly to the back of Gerry’s head, and he fucks up into the heat of his mouth. He stills as Gerry chokes around him and pulls the slick fingers out of his mouth.

“Oh my gods, I’m so sorry!” he gasps, sitting up on his elbows as Gerry wipes at his mouth, “I didn’t mean t-.”

“Do it again.”

“Wh- what?” Michael says, breathing harsh.

“I, uh,” Gerry says, licking his lips and looking up at Michael through his lashes. Michael is still holding Gerry’s wrist, the wet fingers brushing over Michael’s collarbone, and Gerry still has one hand around Michael’s hard cock, “I want you to fuck my face.”

Michael blinks, thinks about his cock sliding in and out of the wet warmth of Gerry’s mouth as fast as he pleases, and would come right then if the man between his legs didn’t have a firm grip on the base of him. “Uh. Okay, maybe, sit up, then? Against the headboard? But I don’t want to hurt you or anything, um…”

Gerry is already shuffling back to sit at the top of the bed, pulling Michael with him, “I’ll just tap you if I can’t breathe, alright? I trust you, Michael.”

Michael nods, taking in a grounding breath, and gets up on two wobbly knees to kneel in front of Gerry’s face. “You sure?” he asks through a haze of lust.

“Yes, please, Your Highness,” Gerry says, taking Michael by the butt and guiding his cock back to his mouth.

Michael moans before contact is even made. Gerry knows just when to call him that for maximum effect. He moves a little, experimenting as Gerry takes him further. He starts with small, intoxicating thrusts that Gerry seems to take with little effort, moaning around his length. He deepens the thrusts a little, clutching the headboard and spreading his legs further. Gerry’s nails dig into him, but he continues humming that long, satisfied, low note. Michael watches his cock disappear between Gerry’s lips, the way the knight’s brows are furrowed in concentration, feels the way he hits the back of Gerry’s throat. He isn’t going to last long at all.

Distracted as he is, he doesn’t notice the lack of a hand on his ass until a finger is pressing against his hole, circling the rim before dipping inside. Michael yelps, hips stuttering back against the intrusion. Gerry’s finger pauses its passage inside the prince and Michael looks down to see Gerry with an eyebrow raised.

“You’re good, so good, continue, please,” Michael says, slowing a little in his brisk pace into Gerry’s mouth.

Gerry hums around him and pushes the finger deeper, working it in and out at an agonizing pace that matches the rhythm of Michael’s thrusts. Michael moans long and loud as Gerry crooks the finger, stretching him wide. He’s already a little loose from the night before, so it isn’t long before Gerry can slide another finger inside. The movement of his fingers quickens, jolting Michael forward into Gerry’s mouth faster and faster, aided by Gerry’s left hand still holding tight to his ass.

“Gerry, I’m not going to last, gods,” Michael gasps, the pleasure pooling low and tightening in his lower abdomen. “Should I, uh…?” He puts a hand on Gerry’s shoulder, intending to pull out, but Gerry frowns and hums a note of disapproval, chin and lips slick with spit and precum. “O- oh, okay, fuck,” Michael all but whimpers, continuing at the pace that Gerry sets from behind.

Gerry is three fingers in now, fucking him fast and loose. Michael is so close, his breath coming ragged, sighs and whines gaining in volume and pitch. His grip on the headboard is white-knuckled. He just needs a little more, oh gods, just a lit-

Gerry crooks his fingers inside Michael, jamming against that delicious bundle of nerves and he comes hard down Gerry’s throat. Gerry squeezes his eyes shut, grunting as he swallows around Michael’s twitching cock. Michael slows his thrusts gradually, working through the orgasm as the blinding white behind his eyelids begins to fade. He slips his cock out of Gerry’s mouth, Gerry’s fingers slide out of his ass, and he slumps over his thigh, dropping his head against Gerry’s shoulder, breathing ragged.

Michael regains his composure enough to remember that Gerry hasn’t been touched through any of this and that that needs to be remedied right now. He lifts his head, and Gerry is looking at him already, eyes dark, lips red and hanging open. He looks like he just got his mouth fucked and Michael’s face colours to know that he’s responsible.

He kisses Gerry on the cheek, “What do you want, beautiful?”

Gerry tips his chin up and kisses Michael firmly. Michael can taste bitter tang on Gerry’s tongue, groans when he realises it’s the taste of himself. The prince drops a hand to Gerry’s leg, squeezing before slipping his fingers around to brush over the sensitive skin on the inside of his thigh. Gerry whimpers, high and lovely, and pulls away.

“Anything, Michael, just get me off. You were so wonderful, fucking me like that, I’m so close already.” Michael nods, kisses him once more and pushes Gerry flat against the pillows. He wiggles down Gerry’s body, pressing hasty kisses to his scars, licking a nipple on the way, until he’s between the knight’s spread thighs. Gerry had been so good for him, the least he could do is get him off fast, end the torture right here.

Michael teases along Gerry’s soft skin for a split second, not delaying too long, and delights in how wet Gerry is already, his fingers sliding easy over the inside of his thighs as he spreads them further. Without further ado, he runs a finger through the pink folds, parting them so he can press a quick kiss to his hole.

Gerry sighs, needy and wanton, runs his hands through Michael’s hair. Michael grimaces when he remembers where those fingers have been, in his ass, in his mouth. That’s fine, they can take a bath later. He licks across Gerry’s entrance, earning another moan, and strokes the flat of his tongue up to Gerry’s clit, sucking it into his mouth. Gerry shouts and bucks up into Michael’s mouth, fingers tightening in his hair.

If Michael hadn’t been fucked three times over the night before, he’d definitely be hard again by now. As it stands, he’s content and satiated as he laps and kisses and sucks on Gerry’s clit. When he starts panting and circling his hips like he does when he’s about to come, Michael slips two fingers inside the other man’s cunt and closes his lips around his clit. He scissors his fingers a couple of times, flicks his tongue three times fast over the swollen erection, and Gerry comes with a cry, tightening around his fingers and coating them in a fresh wave of slick.

Michael strokes his tongue across him from cunt to clit, slow and methodical until Gerry twitches and pushes him away, tugging him up to lie in his arms. Michael curls up against his shoulder, sucking his fingers clean before wrapping his arm around Gerry and kissing his cheek- wet with tears.

##

“Gerry dear, were you crying?” Michael asks. “Did I do something wrong, are you hurt?”

Gerry opens his eyes at the sudden panic in Michael’s voice and shakes his head with a slow smile. “No, no, nothing like that. You were just… really fucking good, okay?” 

“Oh,” Michael says, “Well I should hope so. Only the finest for my bravest knight.”

Gerry chuckles, and pulls Michael close, propping his chin upon the blond’s head. Michael presses as close as he can, inhaling the smell of Gerry’s sweat-damp skin, kissing his neck, and settling in for a mid-morning nap.

“Michael?” Gerry says after a few peaceful, sated moments.

The prince hums in return, trailing a hand over Gerry’s side in twirling, spiralling patterns.

Gerry sighs, growing still under Michael’s weight, hands pausing where they skate over Michael’s back and shoulders. “I think I should tell you something.”

Michael sits up, cringing at the way their skin sticks together as he moves. “Keeping secrets from me, Gerry?” Michael asks with a teasing edge to his voice and a cheeky smile. It smoothes back into a frown as he avoids Michael’s gaze and squeezes his hand into a fist. “Gerry?”

Gerry shakes his head, clenches his jaw, unclenches it, “It’s not… like that. I mean, it isn’t bad, it doesn’t change anything, I don’t think, I just… I want to be honest with you, going forward,” he turns back to look at Michael, brown eyes earnest and brows furrowed, “Because I think you deserve that, Michael.”

Michael frowns, racking his brain for anything Gerry could be keeping from him. Of course, he hadn’t thought he was hiding anything before the hot springs, either. And Michael has his fair share of secrets too. The fact that Michael was planning to seduce Gerry for the sole purpose of abandoning his future as king is worse than anything Gerry may have done, Michael’s sure.

“Well, you don’t have to tell me everything, you’ll always have a right to privacy, Gerry. But if we’re doing this whole honesty thing, there are a few things I could get off my chest, as well,” Michael says, settling his hand over Gerry’s tight fist, sighing as his fingers unfurl and wind between his own.

“Oh. Okay. Do- do you want me to go first?” Gerry asks, taken aback by Michael’s response.

“Hm, I think, maybe, I’d like to go first,” Michael says, heart picking up its pace as he thinks about what he’s about to say. _I was trying to seduce you so you would steal me away from my royal life and it kind of worked but now I’m actually in love with you so it’s okay, right?_ Michael had been hoping that they’re first ‘I love you’ would be a little more romantic than that, but you can’t have everything, he supposes. “Well-.”

The sound of several raised voices, a heavy impact, and splintering wood cuts him off. Michael jumps. Gerry’s arms shoot up around his waist as he sits up and positions his body in front of Michael’s. He relaxes when he realises the sound had come from across the hall, and the voices die down to a murmur. Gerry turns and opens his mouth to say something and is interrupted by a knock at the door.

“What do you want?” Michael asks the door, sounding as grumpy as possible. He doesn’t take kindly to interruptions of his time with Gerry, especially if they were just having a super serious post-coital heart-to-heart.

“Your Highness’s presence is being requested,” comes a strained reply.

Michael tosses an annoyed glance at the knight beside him and slumps against him, dramatically put out. “I’m kind of _busy_ , who’s requesting?”

“Martin Blackwood.”

Michael gasps and sits up, “Gerry, my friends are here!” He squeezes the knight’s arm. It’s been over a week since he saw them last, oh he’s so happy that he gets to see them again! But wait- if they’re here, that means the threat has passed, and that they’ll have to go back to the castle. “Oh. This probably means we have to go back.”

Gerry, who had initially reacted with a smile at Michael’s excitement, lets his expression drop into one of sombre disappointment. He folds a hand over Michael’s, pats it a couple of times.

“Be out in a minute,” the prince calls to the door, waits until he hears footsteps fading away. “We should probably put some clothes on, handsome.”

Gerry hums, wraps an arm around Michael’s waist and pulls him close. He brings a hand up to skim along Michael’s jaw, sending shivers down the prince’s spine with his wandering gaze. He leans in to press a slow, deep kiss to Michael’s lips, carding his fingers through his hair and tugging lightly. Michael takes his time to memorise the warmth of Gerry’s mouth against his own before the knight pulls away, presses one last kiss to his cheek, and slips out of bed.

Michael hunts around in one of the packs for a clean shirt, tugging on his pants as he goes. He opens the door just as Gerry’s fixing his leather armour around his torso and finds a couple of guards there, one of them wringing their hands as they wait. Their expression smoothes over into one of relief when the prince emerges. He frowns, but dismisses the odd behaviour, asking the guards to move aside.

He spots Martin across the wide hall and doesn’t bother to contain his smile and delighted squeal as he runs to the man and throws his arms around him, squeezing him as tight as he can. “Martin!” he gasps, “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Yeah…” Martin says, taking the prince by the shoulders and holding him back, “I’m glad to see you, too.” There’s something odd in his face- it’s a perplexing mixture of relief and sadness. Michael can’t think of anything he might be sad about. Except-

“Why the face, Martin? It’s only been a week, surely you didn’t miss me that much? Wait! Where’s Jon?” Michael glances around the landing, doesn’t find any short, tired-looking Seer anywhere, and a sharp spike of concern lances through him.

“Oh, no, he’s fine! Don’t worry. It’s just been stressful, you know. I mean, I know it was my plan, but we were all still worried,” Martin says, smiling. Still with that sad glimmer, though. He draws the prince back into a hug, pinning his arms against him and holding him close.

“Oh, well, it’s alright. I’m fine, we’re all fine, there’s nothing to worry about anymore, right? Martin? You’re hugging me pretty tight there, would you mind, ah-?” Michael says, breath escaping him as feels Martin grip his shirt tight. Something isn’t right.

From behind him, Michael hears swearing. Familiar swearing- he’s heard it countless times. When Gerry tracked him down in the gardens or the kitchens. When Gerry lost a rabbit on the way here. When the horses stumbled over a craggy patch of rock. Never this loud, never this frantic.

“Get off, you fucking piece of- _oof._ Fuck you, I-.” Michael turns as much as he can in Martin’s embrace to see Gerry struggling between two of the guards that had been waiting outside the door. Each has a two-handed iron grip on an arm, hauling him out of the room as he struggles against their combined strength. He’s thrashing hard, teeth gritted. He looks up at Michael as they drag him out of their room, brow furrowed, expression confused, betrayed even, “Michael, what-?”

He’s cut off by a swift punch to the gut, coughing as he doubles over. “You will address the prince by the title of Your Highness, traitor.” 

Michael shouts in alarm as Gerry groans in pain, “Martin, what the fuck is happening? Gerry! Oi, don’t touch him! Let go!”

“I’m sorry, Michael. It’s for your own good. Jon, he- he saw something. We’re lucky we got here before anything happened. Gerard Keay is being charged with conspiracy against the Crown. He was here to kill you,” Martin says into his ear, low and urgent.

“What?” Michael squeaks, struggling to get free- to no avail, “That’s bullshit, he hasn’t done anything! Let go of him! Martin, what the fuck are you doing?”

“I’m sorry, Michael,” Martin repeats, squeezing tighter.

“No! Fuck this, stop! I order you to stop!” He struggles again, finds no escape. Useless, he appeals to the guards as they muscle Gerry past him. “I’ll have your fucking heads if you don’t stop this!” he growls.

They pause for the briefest of moments, look past Michael to Martin. Michael feels him shake his head, and they continue with Gerry down the stairs, heading out toward the streets.

“Martin!” Michael begs, voice rising in pitch with every second, “tell them to stop! He didn’t do anything! Gerry!”

“Yeah, thank gods,” Martin says. Gerry lifts his head, locks eyes with Michael. A thin trickle of blood escapes from the corner of his lips, his gaze wide, dark, confused.

“Michael, what’s happening? Is this you?” Gerry asks, tone coloured scared, bordering on betrayed. He looks back over his shoulder at the prince as he’s lead down the stairs, “Michael, I thought-.” He’s cut off by another blow from the guards.

“No, Gerry, I would never! I swear I don’t know what this is! Martin, _please_ , this is ridiculous,” Michael yells, struggling with renewed vigour against Martin’s arms. He can’t let Gerry go. Can’t let him go wherever they’re taking him, especially not thinking this was Michael’s doing. He can’t imagine- Gerry had just learnt to trust him, he’d been doing so well, coming out of his shell, letting himself be. Michael can’t imagine what this betrayal might do to them, what it might do to Gerry.

As Gerry disappears out the front door of the inn, Martin loosens his grasp with a defeated sigh. It isn’t enough to get free, so Michael digs his nails into his friend’s arms until he lets go with a muffled curse. Michael bolts down the stairs, managing to throw a haphazard apology over his shoulder as he runs.

He slams into the door of the inn, grapples with the handle until he manages it open with his sweaty hands. It’s raining outside, water turning the ground to mush. He slips through the slurry as he darts out, just as a guard locks the back of a cart, another holding the shuddering door closed against the impacts from inside. Michael runs to the cart, shoulders past the guards, and rattles the bars over the small port window.

“Gerry! Gerry, I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s happening. I’ll fix this, I promise. I swear, I’ll fix this!”

A hand comes up to wrap over his, and Gerry’s bewildered, angry face appears in the shadow behind the bars, “Michael, don’t listen to them! I wasn’t doing anything they said, I swear I just wanted to protect you! You have to trust me, please!”

“What?” Michael gasps, “Gerry, of course, I trust you! I promise I’ll fix this; I’ll do whatever, just hang in there, alright? I’ll get you out, I fucking promise, okay? Gerry, I lo-.”

Michael trips forward, hands and knees ploughing hard into the mud as the cart jerks forward and starts to roll away from him, beginning its week-long journey back to the castle. Back to the queen, who Gerry has been accused of conspiring against.

“I love you,” the words slip out of their own accord, Michael sitting back on his heels. His chest feels tight. With anger. With sadness. With loss. 

What the fuck just happened? What did Jon see? Whatever it was, he must have made a mistake. Gerry wouldn’t do anything to hurt him, not ever- Michael’s _sure_ of it. How could Jon have done this?

Lost and confused, Michael sloshes down into the puddle and just sits there, for a good long while, watching the receding cart and ignoring the tear-streaked rain dripping from his chin.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading yall! I hope you enjoyed, please feel free to leave comments if you feel like it :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon has a conversation, Michael escapes, everything goes wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg its been so long ahhh. its okay though because there's only one chapter left and its already written so ill have it done soon ;))) anyway thanks for sticking around and posting such wonderful comments and being so patient <3
> 
> content warnings: body horror (mild), violence, transphobia mention
> 
> enjoy :0

It’s been a week since Jon left the castle and he’s starting to lose patience, the dripping wound of bad decisions bleeding a sluggish, nauseating sort of hope the longer he travels these back streets and tired, sad towns. Hope that maybe this isn’t beyond redemption. He’s asked around, begged for information when he was too drained to Ask, and he’d finally, _finally_ , found a lead that might get him somewhere that isn’t a dead end or an ambush. An embroidery shop that nobody can seem to remember quite right.

He scans the storefronts for the name he’d been given, thighs and back aching with each step of the stead beneath him. He’s hardly slept, hardly eaten; hasn’t bathed since he departed, though none of it seems to bother him. He’s been so close to answers for days now, and nothing could sustain him more than some much-needed truth.

The more he thinks about it, the more he’s sure there’s no other answer to be found here. Gerard Keay is a traitor to the Crown. No matter which way he looks at it, whatever angle he cocks his head, those words from the witch’s lips always hand him the same answer. Gerry is going to kill Michael. 

_Was_ going to kill Michael; Jon can’t let himself think about this like Michael might be taken from him. He won’t allow it.

The thing that nags at Jon most is that he hadn’t suspected this at all. For all his current certainty that Michael has been in very real danger in this man’s presence, there’d been nothing to suggest Gerry’s true intentions. The way he looked at Michael… well, maybe Jon had misread it. Maybe it wasn’t love for the prince he’d been seeing, but rather an infatuation with what the witch could bring him. Maybe it wasn’t a genuine desire to be close to the prince Jon had seen in his lingering hands, but an aching to finish the job with them.

The longer he thinks back to all those times he’d seen Michael lean into the knight’s sturdier frame, the dark-haired man’s hands on the small of the prince’s back, the more Jon feels sick to his stomach at the thought of allowing this to happen. He’s been away from the castle for a week. Martin and the arresting party will have reached the northern stronghold days ago. They’ll be on their way back with their findings any second, prince or no prince. Michael could be dead already and Jon would be none the wiser. 

… He hasn’t dared to Look north.

Instead, he looks back to the life they’ve lived together. Jon, Michael, Martin, the Queen. A weird, happy little family.

But even that takes its toll, the ever-present thought that maybe this is all he has now; memories, not letting him rest. It brings no peace, only tears and a frantic need to find Annabelle and wring the answers out of her by any means necessary.

So he doesn’t think at all. He searches.

He finally finds what he’s looking for in a town half-ringed by a great forest on its western edge. The town is more of a village, roads paved with more holes than dirt. The people here are cagey and old, weathered from a life of misfortune and mistrust of others. They watch the swing of Jon’s coin purse, the brush of the horse’s combed main. There’s hunger dancing in their eyes and envy in their trussed brows.

These are not a wealthy people, and the only thing that stops Jon from emptying his hard-earned wealth into the streets is the way he Knows they’ll strip his bones if he shows them that sliver of kindness.

The general disrepair of the town makes Jon’s target easier to spot. On the last lot on the end of the main road, a shop is sitting pretty and out of place as a parrot on a sun-stripped tree. The wood and stone it’s built from are new and clean, neat slabs held together by the tending of expert hands. The sign swinging in the more-dust-than-wind also looks brand new, _Web’s Stitches_ in big pink letters that beckon Jon closer.

He makes sure he’s out of sight of most anyone in town before he dismounts his horse and tethers it to a pole in front of the building, filled with an inevitable trepidation. This woman makes a living in manipulating people to do her bidding- and embroidery- committing atrocities against the crown and who knows what else. Jon hadn’t thought of this before now, but the possibility that he won’t see the other side of this encounter with such a powerful woman isn’t as slim as he’d like. He hadn’t done a damn thing to prepare or protect himself, so caught up he was with the prince’s well-being, and he’s kicking himself for it.

But he’s running out of time. He takes the few steps up onto the porch, places a trembling palm on the handle of the double doors. A bell chimes when he enters, the sound clanging through the dust and perfume scented air.

Inside is just as clean as the exterior would suggest, all smooth polished wood surfaces and shining glass. There are several display cases along the walls, several more stands, each hung or filled with dresses of varying sizes, colours, and styles. The only common thread between each garment is the mass of intricate embroidery lacing over the hems and sleeves and bodices, forming patterns and schemes of immediately apparent skill. So impressive is the display that Jon nearly forgets his fear when his eyes find the woman he’s been looking for going on seven days now.

Annabelle is a little older than the vision where Jon had seen her last, though she carries it well. Her skin is smooth and black, white hair standing crisp against her scalp. Her eyes are dark as they look down at her work, long, thin fingers pressing a needle through sheer cream fabric, tugging it back through, over and over. But when she looks up at Jon, her irises beam a bright amber, not altogether human, not altogether unpleasant. Jon finds himself approaching, legs numb.

“Annabelle?” Jon asks, taking a deep breath to steady his shaking hands as he places them on the wood.

She smiles, plum lips parting over straight white teeth, “That’s me, Hun. Annabelle Cane. Are you looking for a dress?”

Jon takes another glance around the room, takes in the skill and creativity in the designs, the expensive fabrics and threads. “No. I want to know what you have against the prince.”

She raises an eyebrow, hands stilling where they had continued to work blindly, effortlessly, through the conversation. “Oh? No pretence? Alright. You know, I am quite impressed that you came to find me yourself. No reinforcements. No protection. But then things never do go exactly how I plan.”

“That sounds like a lie.”

She laughs and puts aside the dress, “You’re right. Everything is right where it should be. I’ve made sure of that.”

Jon’s skin crawls at the idea that she had planned this. That she knew he’d come here asking these questions. Even so, he can’t talk around them, can’t jump over them; the only path to the other side leads through a (hopefully) illuminating conversation with this witch. So long as his desires align with hers, she might give him what he came for.

“So, anyway. What is your name, and why have you come here?” Annabelle asks.

Jon squints, “You don’t know who I am?”

“Oh, I know who you _are_ , darling. I just don’t know your name.”

“Names aren’t important,” Jon answers.

“I disagree.”

Jon sighs, “It’s Jonathan. Now, I’d like to ask a few questions, if you wouldn’t mind. Why did you stage an attack against the prince?”

Her brow furrows, and she looks up and away like she can’t remember if that might have been something that she’s done. “I’m… quite sure you don’t know what you’re talking about. I have nothing against the prince. Or even the Crown as a whole.”

Jon glares, wishes she weren’t so powerful, wishes she weren’t so good a liar. Wishes none of this had ever happened. “Are you even capable of telling the truth?” he spits.

The look on her face repeats with a hint of urgency like she’s trying even harder to find the memory of what Jon might be talking about. Then she laughs, bright and confused. “I really don’t know what you could be referring to. You must have some incorrect information. Or questionable _sources_.” She says that last part with a teasing grin and a wink.

Jon sighs, getting antsy under her uncomfortably familiar, friendly disposition, “You told Gerard Keay to kill the prince.”

She laughs outright at this, wiping a non-existent tear from the corner of her eye and finishing with a sardonic scoff, “Oh, you saw that, did you? You Saw me say “kill the prince for me” to that young man in the woods?”

“Ye- well, pretty much. There isn’t much else you could have said with those words,” Jon says. Because there isn’t. There’s no reason to use those words unless she had malicious intent against the prince. Right? Well… Perhaps there are a few options. But not many. And surely not enough to make anything but a planned attack the most likely outcome of that conversation. 

“Honey,” she says, leaning forward and pouting at him, “It’s quite the opposite. You should learn to keep an open mind; not jump to conclusions. Something tells me you have a little bit of a problem with that, don’t you?”

“I-,” Jon starts, then snaps his mouth shut. He thinks about how quick he’d been to assume Gerry’s defensiveness over his secrets was a threat to the prince, pushing further and finding something that should have been left well alone. If he’d think about it, Jon’d find it the seed of this whole mess. “You could be lying right now. How could I ever take your word as truth?”

“Jon. I get what I want. I’ve spent my whole life refining my craft. So take it from someone who knows- there are far easier ways to get others wrapped around your finger than serving them something so primitive as a _lie_. Telling the truth- the right truth, truths shaped and stuck together just so- is far more effective. I have no reason to abandon such a fool-proof method for one simple Seer.”

He frowns, searching her eyes for a sliver of deception. They’re unreadable as ever, but she does make a compelling argument. He deflates a little and grinds his teeth.

“You look tired, pet. Why don’t you take a seat?” She gestures to a stool beside him. A stool that hadn’t been there before. Jon slumps into it and doesn’t question how it got there.

“If you didn’t order him killed, then what, _exactly_ , was he supposed to do for you?” Jon crosses his arms.

She taps one slender finger against her chin, “I think what you must have seen, or at least, seen fragments of, was when I told him that there would be an attack on the prince. And that he’d need to protect him, but he wouldn’t need to kill anyone.”

“You wanted him to _protect_ the prince?” Jon’s mind is whirling back to what he had seen. He hates to admit that it fits.

She hums, “It was quite serendipitous actually. I had just seen the attack when he came knocking on my door, and I thought ‘wow, this is perfect, a brave young man willing to do my bidding just when I need it.’” 

Jon feels his eyebrows spring up in surprise, “You knew about the attack? Way back then? Who staged it? Who’s responsible? I thought it was you once I recei-.”

“Woah, hey, slow down a bit there, Jon. I’ll answer your questions. If you ask them one at a time,” she says with her hands raised.

Jon sighs, nods, “Okay. Who staged the attack?”

She shrugs, “Just an archer hired by the east. They’ve been doing some light espionage over the years, wanted to keep the Crown on its toes by sending a little message. I expect what I saw was a version of the future that didn’t come to pass if what I’ve heard of the actual attack is true. I don’t think they were really aiming to harm anyone; more just sow some fear.” 

Jon grimaces, light-headed from the sudden onslaught of information. “S-so you sent Gerry to protect the prince. Not kill him?”

She nods, puts a hand to her chest with a small smile, “Gerry? Is that what he goes by now? Oh, that’s sweet.”

Jon doesn’t hear her reply beyond the nod. Jon had been right in the first place. Gerry never wanted to hurt the prince. Oh, gods. He’s made a terrible mistake. Told the queen of false intentions. Fuck. _Fuck_. Gerry will be killed for it if Jon doesn’t get back in time. He may already be dead. Oh lord, Michael will never forgive him. Jon will never forgive _himself_.

“Oh, gods,” Jon says, putting a hand to his head, “I’ve done something terrible. Oh lord, this is not good.”

Annabelle cocks her head, leans forward, “Oh? What’s that?”

“Gerry… he’ll be killed because of me. I thought- I thought he was going to kill the prince. I thought you had sent him to murder Michael. I told the queen, oh gods…” Jon’s breaths are coming hard and fast now, chest heaving up and down. Fuck, why couldn’t he have done better?

She reaches a hand across the bench but doesn’t touch him. Her brows are pinched together, and if Jon wasn’t so wrapped up in the consequences of his actions, he’d almost say her concern looks genuine. “That was quite… foolish of you, yes. Perhaps you should go. It’ll only be a matter of time, by now.”

He should. He really should.

“You’re right. But I need to know something first. Why did you want to protect the prince? You aren’t aligned with the crown, I don’t understand.” Jon wants to go, wants to fix whatever he’s got his family into. His Need for answers has him grounded.

She hesitates, something Jon had thus far never seen her do. “You really want to know, huh?” 

Jon nods.

She sighs and reaches over the counter. This time she does touch him, a calloused fingertip pressing against his forehead. Jon flinches and is no longer in the out-of-place embroidery shop on the edge of some shithole town.

He sees Annabelle sitting in a high-backed chair behind a desk, scribbling away over some piece of parchment. The room she’s in is small, the tiny candle flame flickering away on her desk casting a warm puddle of glow across the carpeted space, throwing dancing shadows up along the walls.

Jon peers closer to see that she is writing a letter, signed at the bottom with a flourished _Annabelle Cane of Hilltop Orphanage_. Jon knows of that place. It had been in the town over from his own, coated in a shroud of mystery and intrigue. It was well known, and well respected, too. It wasn’t one of those dark places where kids sent were never seen again, though each child that saw inside its walls were known to come out a little different. In ways that no one could ever quite put their finger on. 

Annabelle looks up at the sound of the door creaking open and jumps when the candle goes out beside her. She sighs and clicks her fingers. The flame jumps back to life and beyond it, the witch spies a little figure in the dark wedge of the door’s shadow.

“What are you doing out of bed?” she chides, standing up and rounding the desk.

The boy giggles and hides his face half behind the door frame. Annabelle holds her hands up, crooks her fingers and bares her teeth like she’s about to catch him and gobble him up. He runs off down the hall, squealing with delight. Annabelle chuckles and scoops him up before he gets too far, hoping he hasn’t woken any of the other children.

“How did you get out of bed you little bugger?” she asks again, balancing him on her hip and retreating into her office.

He tucks his face into her shoulder and waves a hand out at the door. It slams shut.

“Oi, none of that. It’s late,” she admonishes with a smile. She could never stay mad at him, “Oh, but you are a promising young witch, aren’t you, Michael?”

He beams a gap-filled grin at her and pokes her cheek with a short, chubby finger. She feels the tell-tale tickle of one of his baby vines crawling along her skin. She smiles back at him and sways on the spot as he creates leaves out of thin air, watching them wilt and dry up and crackle underfoot in a captivating green-orange-yellow cycle.

Michael had come to her a little under two years ago, of unknown parentage. It’s been some of the best years of Annabelle’s life watching his magic grow and flourish under her guidance. It’s a meticulous process; any interruptions could throw his progress off track for years. Annabelle doesn’t mind the work, of course- he’s a clever lad and she can’t wait to see what he might become. But for now, she needs to get him back to bed. 

“You’ll wear yourself out if you keep doing that, love,” she says, watching as Michael begins to droop in her arms, head dipping low to her shoulder as his magic sparks out on his fingertips.

Before she can say anything further, there’s a knock at the office door. Annabelle calls for them to come in, and one of the younger caretakers peeks her head in, the flustered look on her face smoothing over as she spies Michael in the witch’s arms. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Annabelle. You know how he just gets away from us sometimes.”

Annabelle chuckles, “It’s alright, I’ll put him down. He didn’t wake any others, did he?”

She shakes her head, “No, uh, but… I was thinking I would take him because, uh, there’s someone here to see you.”

Annabelle frowns. “It’s late. Who could be calling at this hour? Honestly, Clair, you need to learn to say ‘no’ sometimes.” 

Clair shrugs, blushes a little, “Oh, I would have, but. This is important, trust me.”

Annabelle sighs, amber eyes drifting back down to Michael in her arms. She hands him over to Clair, gently so as not to wake the small boy. “Fine. Send them in. It better be important.”

Clair nods and hustles away, Michael mumbling in her arms. Annabelle sits down at her desk and lights a second candle to wait for the mysterious visitor. It isn’t long before she receives another knock at the door, and looks up to see a tall, hooded figure in her doorway, face shrouded, hand still lifted.

She tightens her jaw, lifts her chin, “I have no patience for secrecy here, especially not at this hour. If you wish to talk you shall reveal your identity.”

The figure hesitates, then moves forward, dropping the hood of the cloak to their shoulders as they move to take a seat in the chair opposite the desk. It’s a woman with long dark hair, older than most that come to drop their young here, and by far the most beautiful person Annabelle has seen in this town. In the low light, it takes her a moment to recognise the queen of this kingdom, and a moment more to process her shock.

“Uh- Your Highness, forgive me, I was not informed, I-,” Annabelle starts.

The queen holds up her hand, “That is quite alright. I’m sorry for intruding at such a late hour, but I felt my business here needed to be kept secret.”

Annabelle nods dumbly before regaining her composure. “What can I do for you, my queen?” 

“Please. Call me Winona,” she says, wringing her hands in her lap, “I- I need a child.”

Annabelle frowns, not for the first or last time this night. “I- sorry, I thought you had one?”

The queen’s face crumples, aloof mask giving way under some unknown pressure as she drops her head into her hands for a long, stretching moment. Terrified that she’d overstepped, Annabelle shoots to her feet and moves around the desk. She’s about to speak, when the queen opens her mouth, “I did. Of course. My daughter, Helen, oh gods. She, uh, she succumbed to the flu months ago. I’ve been so distraught, I could not… I could not address it. I couldn’t I- gods…”

Annabelle pauses, before sinking to a knee beside the queen’s chair and gripping the armrest. “I am so sorry for your loss. Forgive me, I did not know. What is it that you need from me?”

The queen wipes at her face, and Annabelle rushes to produce a handkerchief. Winona smiles, watery, and takes it. “I... I need an heir. I struggled to fall pregnant even with Helen. Now without Phillip… it’s hopeless.”

“Are you… looking to pass this child off as your own?”

The queen looks at the witch, dark eyes glittering with unshed tears in the twin candle flames, and she nods with pursed, trembling lips. “Yes, I, I’m quite ashamed of all this, but… I can’t have any questions.”

Annabelle releases her hand from the armrest, tentatively lays it on the queen’s knee. In any other circumstance, she would not dare to be so bold. But here in the darkness of her office, the queen’s façade of control and poise sitting cracked and broken in her lap, shoulders shuddering under the weight of a decision so many would never dream of facing… she thinks perhaps some behaviours could be excused.

The queen drops her hand from her trembling lip and grips Annabelle’s in a surprising show of weakness. Or strength. Annabelle can’t quite decide. “You have nothing to be ashamed of. Raising a child in any capacity, yours or otherwise. It’s a noble endeavour. No matter the reason behind it.”

Annabelle looks passed the queen to where the door has cracked open once more, to the little round face peeking through. Michael hovers at the threshold, apparently not so tired as Annabelle believed, watching the scene unfold. He’s a sweet boy- joy and mischief glittering eternal in his round grey eyes. He’ll grow into a beautiful and kind young man, Annabelle is sure.

Not unlike the late king, perhaps. Phillip had always been smiling, benevolent beneath his halo of blond curls. Winona would have no trouble convincing others Michael is Phillip’s blood. The thought of parting with the young witch makes Annabelle want to reach for another handkerchief, but she’ll be damned if she won’t take any chance to give one of her kids a better life. And what better life could she give him than the life of the prince?

“I have just the child in mind, Your Highness.”

The vision swims before Jon’s eyes, leaving him reeling before it reforms into a small, dark courtyard, two figures standing, another crouched. Annabelle buries her face in Michael’s curls for a minute, soaking in the feeling of Michael’s small hands clutching in the front of her robes.

“You’re a good boy, Michael,” Annabelle says. The queen is waiting just in front of her, fingers twisting a ring round and round on her pinky. A knight beside her stands in his leather armour, watching the exchange with a stoic sort of disinterest.

“Belle, why?” Michael asks as she gently shushes him at arms-length.

“It’s alright, Michael. You’ll get everything you want. You’ll have the most wonderful life, won’t you?” Annabelle brushes a curl from his forehead and pats his cheek.

Michael clutches her hand, so much bigger in both of his, “Will you be there?”

She bites her lip, looks away from him for a second. When she looks back, he’s staring into her like he knows what she’s thinking. Like he knows that she’s about to lie. “Sure, Michael. I’ll be there.”

He nods with big, watery eyes and bundles himself against her once more, tiny hands bunched around her neck.

“You’ll be a good boy, won’t you?” she whispers into his hair. She feels more than hears a vehement ‘no’ in response and can’t help but chuckle. If it turns into a sob somewhere along the way, she only hopes no one notices.

“Come now,” the knight says, taking an impatient step forward to wind armoured hands around the young boy and tug him away from the witch.

“No!” Michael screeches, struggling.

“It’s okay, pet, you can go with them. You’ll be just fine. More than fine,” Annabelle says, unable to hide her tears.

Michael continues to wail even as he curls against the knight’s chest, even as Winona steps forward to press a quivering kiss to Annabelle’s cheek. “Thank you,” she whispers, voice thick with tears.

And Jon is sitting on the stool in Web’s Stitches, teetering almost off it as he loses his balance. Jon gasps, fighting off a wave of nausea, “Michael- Michael isn’t of royal blood?”

Annabelle shakes her head, “Nope. As common as you or I.”

“You… have you not seen him since?” Jon asks. He’s having a bit of trouble, reconciling what he knows with what he’s learnt.

She blinks, looks down like she’s trying to hide tears. The surging waves of potent, genuine emotion emanating from that vision have dispelled any disbelief Jon may have been holding onto. She isn’t lying. She wanted to protect the prince because he’s special to her. Because he was like a son to her. “Uh, not in person. I have… checked in on him throughout the years, in my own way. Watched him grow. Watched him forget his magic.”

“Why? I’m sure you would have been granted visits with him. Winona is kind and just... Mostly. She wouldn’t have refused you.”

“If I wanted him to have a better life- which is all I wanted- well, I knew I couldn’t be a part of it. He would have grown up knowing where he had come from, knowing he wasn’t born for that life. I couldn’t risk that for him. I wanted him to grow into the prince I knew he could be.”

Jon can’t contain the laugh that spills out of him at that. She glares at him. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude. It’s just that, well, he hates it. Every chance he gets to skip out on lessons and meetings he takes, always goes down to his gardens instead.”

“Oh.” She lets a smile take root on her face, incredibly fond, and taps a few fingers against the wood counter. “Well. I can’t say that doesn’t surprise me. Perhaps he still uses his magic. In ways he doesn’t understand,” she hums, looks out the window with a wistful look in her amber eyes for a long moment. “Well, you best be going, now. If you want to fix your mistakes.”

Jon gives a hesitant nod. “Uh, one last thing.”

She lifts an eyebrow, and Jon knows he’s pushing the limits of his welcome. “Go on.”

“You told Gerry he had to learn something. What was it?”

She sighs and rolls her eyes. “Oh. That. I was _hoping_ that he’d realise a body doesn’t make a man. I was hoping that he’d see he could be everything that he’d ever wanted in the body he was given. I told him that he’d do well to reach out and make friends, perhaps find someone special, and he’d realise that he isn’t inherently unlovable because of who he is. Doesn’t seem to be going as well as I wished, however. His issues run a _lot_ deeper than I imagined.”

Jon nods. “That’s… admirable, I suppose. Why, though?”

She shrugs, runs a nonchalant finger through a groove in the wood, “It’s just… something I wish I had known before I had found my own witch at his age. I’ll give him a dick if he wants, that’s not a problem, I just wanted him to _understand_ first. Understand that people like us aren’t wrong. You know?”

Jon blinks, nods again, unsure what to say. “So you hooked up your favourite orphan with some random kid in the woods?”

Annabelle cocks her head to the side, “They’re together?”

“Yeah. Well. If they weren’t before they went on a private week-long nature hike together, then they are now,” Jon says. Their little dance around each other had been coming to a close, there is no chance the tension held up over a week of travelling intimacy.

“Oh. Well that isn’t exactly what I intended. But that’s rather nice. I bet they’re cute together, aren’t they?” 

“Oh, yeah. It’s disgusting, really.”

“I’m sure.”

There’s an awkward moment there. Between heated argument, tense revelation, and cooing over unexpectedly mutual acquaintances, it seems they’ve reached the natural conclusion to their conversation, and Jon doesn’t quite know how to end it.

“Well, I better get back and make sure neither of them has been killed, so, uh. Thank you, Annabelle. And I’m sorry I misjudged you so readily.” Jon says, clapping awkwardly and getting to his feet.

Annabelle nods. “Of course. Pleasure to meet you. But, uh, could you do one thing for me when you get back to the castle?”

“Anything.”

“Tell Winona I said hello. And that I wish her all the best,” Annabelle doesn’t quite meet Jon’s eyes as she speaks, inching a hand back toward her embroidery and tugging it back into her lap.

“Sure.”

“Oh, and take care leaving this town. I had to stop your horse from getting pinched three times over as you’ve been in here,” she lifts her head back up, slipping back into her cock-sure disposition.

“Uh, yeah. Sure. Thanks again,” Jon says, closing shaking fingers around the door handle.

“Good luck, Jon.”

“Goodbye, Annabelle,” Jon says, inclining his head and leaving the store. He spares a single glance back at the building as he leaves the town and finds only a dilapidated storefront in its place.

*

Michael struggles against the knight’s iron-clad grip as he’s hoisted up the stairs towards his quarters, the queen following along behind, jaw clenched as she watches her son writhe.

“Mum, I swear, it’s not what you think!” Michael pleads, kicking his heels against the ground as he’s dragged along. He continues, desperate and reedy, “Not to be cliché, but I love him!”

Winona pauses at his words, and seeing her halt, the knight follows suit, awaiting orders. She doesn’t look at Michael or the knight for a minute, staring into the middle distance. She turns her head, meeting nobody’s gaze, and nods, “Confine him,” she says.

“Mum?!” Michael squeaks, voice raw from days of shouting and crying, “Please! He didn’t do anything, I _swear_!”

She pauses once more. “You are naïve, Michael. You do not know the grave danger that you were in.”

Michael thrashes once more in the knight’s arms, seeing his chamber doors approaching from the corner of his eye. “And you don’t know when you’re talking out of your ass!” Michael arches against the arms holding his, slams his feet against the tiled floor. He wrenches his wrist from the man, nails scratching over battered skin, and for a moment Michael breaks free. He gets two steps before the knight catches him with two thick arms around his waist and Michael lets himself fall limp to the floor, bringing the knight with him.

The queen watches this all unfold, lips tight and eyes hard. With Michael restrained once more, she flicks a wrist, and the knight shoves Michael into his chambers, locking the door behind him with a solid, finalizing click.

Michael throws his fists against the heavy oak door, once, twice, before sinking to the floor, back flush against it, hauling his knees up to his chest and burying his face in them. He cries, chest heaving great, racking sobs from lungs, tears dampening his stained travelling pants.

It has been a week since Michael had last seen Gerry, pulled away from him and thrown into the back of that cart. Michael had likewise been seized, albeit less firmly, and carted back to the castle along with Martin’s bounty. Over days of attempting terribly planned escapes and ploys, they learned to bind him with rope, as the rings around his wrists remind him.

“For your own good” they’d said. 

There must have been some kind of mistake. “Jon saw something.” Michael loves Jon dearly, but he can’t be right. Not here. Not about this. Gerry wouldn’t do anything to harm Michael. And if he had been planning a murder, why then did the knight save him from that arrow that night, if he were going to kill him another time, another way?

And- and they’d been in love, hadn’t they? Gerry wouldn’t do this. Michael’s sure.

Doing this had been hard on Martin, Michael could see that in the way he discreetly wiped under his glasses when Michael yelled at him to explain himself along the way. Martin had ridden in another cart, away from Michael’s accusing gaze. The prince can’t blame him, but some small vindictive part of him is glad Martin was so uncomfortable. Gerry had become his friend, too.

None of them even knew that Gerry was going to take Michael away from this place.

Michael can’t even imagine what they might be doing to Gerry. Is it torture? Is that it? Are they cutting the information out of him? Information that doesn’t exist because he wasn’t fucking planning anything, that is. Michael can’t bear to think about it. All he knows is that they’ve been back in the kingdom for two hours now, and his mother won’t waste time in dealing with someone who she thinks wronged her son. 

He needs to get out. Fast.

He dries his tears and stands, holding his pounding head for a moment as it throbs under the weight of dehydration. Michael hadn’t made it easy for them to feed him or make him drink, either, and it looks like that portion of his revenge is starting to backfire. He moves to the window, now fixed and whole. It’s broken once, it can break again.

The window stretches the height and half the length of the eastward wall, made of several panes of crystal-clear glass. The two panes that had been shattered by the arrow- one above Michael’s head, the other spanning his head and chest- are new, the glue around the edges dried but fresh. Maybe they’d even be a little easier to break. 

As he’s pondering the possible mechanics of how to break out of his own room, he catches the sound of the door creaking open behind him. Not taking his chances on who or why might be calling, he turns and hurls himself toward it.

The knight dropping the tray at the threshold looks up just in time to see Michael bolting toward him and shuts the door quickly. Michael slams into it, hip ramming painfully into the doorknob and forearms pounding into the wood.

He jiggles the handle as he hears the lock clicking back into place, but it doesn’t come free of the jamb. He sighs, fights back a fresh wave of tears with a grunt, and turns back to face the room, ignoring the tray of food even through the churning, nauseous hunger in his gut.

He moves across the room to his desk. It’s modest. Well, for a prince, at least, but he keeps a few books stacked on it along with a few sheets of parchment, an inkwell, and a paperweight. Nothing too special. He takes his quill from where it lays in a small puddle of dried ink and runs his thumb over the nib. Not fine enough to fit into a lock. He huffs and throws it down.

He spends a precious few moments rummaging through the desk drawers, hoping to unearth any kind of utensils he might use to pick the lock. Nothing. He pulls his hands from the overturned mess of his drawers and grips the polished wood of the desk, rattling it in a silent rage for a moment before letting go and tugging on his hair with a tight-lipped scream.

Michael tries his vanity next, ripping open its drawers and compartments. The glimmer of various bits of jewellery catches his eye and he scrambles to pick up an earring, desperate to mould the half-formed idea in his head into a full-fledged option before it slips away. The post of the earring is thin and gold, small enough to fit into the lock, but perhaps not long enough. He gathers a handful of earrings and other finery with extruding parts of varying length and shape, clutching them to his chest and willing them to spell freedom.

He tries them all in the lock, growling in frustration as the pieces slip in his grasp and break against the heavy tumblers. There’s a heavy pounding on the door from the other side and Michael skitters away in surprise.

“Oi! I can hear you! Get back from the door,” a gruff voice says, then like an afterthought, “Your Highness.”

Fuck. Of course there’s someone right outside, you fucking idiot.

Michael’s running out of time. Gerry could be dead already for all he knows. Maybe he’s been dead for the entire week, and this imprisonment is just punishment for being so stupid. He shakes away that thought and stands, takes another turn about his room for something he might use to escape. His gaze is drawn back to the window, time and time again.

He casts around for something heavy. It’ll make a lot of noise. He needs to be prepared and do it quick. He fishes a coat from his wardrobe- one that will cover the ring of broken glass when he wiggles through- and picks the paperweight off the desk. Pressing himself against the window, he takes a moment to take in what lies beneath. There’s a hedge below that Michael could land in, but it’s still a drop from two or more storeys up.

Whatever. He might break a leg or two on the way down, but adrenaline will probably be enough to get him where he needs to go. Unless he lands on his head. Okay. Alright, enough of that thinking. He can do this.

The prince takes three steps back from the window and hurls the weight at a pane chest-height in the wall. It impacts with a dull crunch, and the pane splinters into a spidering web of cracks. It does not shatter, and Michael’s just made a very loud noise. He curses and picks the weight up again. A second time should do it. Will do it. _Has_ to do it.

He lifts it again and closes his eyes for the briefest of seconds. He pictures Gerry’s face, a blush high on his cheekbones as he leans his head into Michael’s hand, smiling at some stupid joke Michael had just cracked. He allows it to fill him with love. He pictures Gerry’s face, a trickle of blood curling through the sweat on his lips and dripping from his chin, eyes filled with pain and confusion as he tries to free his arms from the guards beside him.

He allows it to fill him with fear and rage. And he throws.

*

Jon is tiring. But he can’t allow that to slow him down- he’s so close to the castle. He’s travelled for most of the day, and it feels like every muscle in his body is screaming for relief as the horse’s hooves strike dirt and rock and cobbled stone, sending shuddering, painful jolts through his bones with each step.

It had taken him nigh on a week to find the witch in that shitty old town, but the route back is considerably faster, more direct, only taking him the better part of two days to reach his home. The sun isn’t quite setting, but the hard blue of the spring sky is sliding into something gentle and subdued as he enters the city limits.

By the time he reaches the castle gates, the clouds have soaked in the spilled reds of the setting sun and fill Jon with a bone-rattling sense of unease. Gods, if only he had waited a damn moment and thought about the consequences of his actions before telling the queen an innocent man is trying to kill her son. How could he have been so foolish? Gerry had been his _friend_ , for fuck’s sake. Even a blind, deaf idiot wouldn’t fail to notice how happy he made the prince, how in love he was.

He dismounts the horse as the guards at the gate hold a hand up to him, his ankles jarring hard against the ground. He tugs his hood back, scarf down, and abandons his horse as they open the gates for him. There are a scant amount of people milling about in the main courtyard, a few stable hands brushing away at the royal horses and two guards stationed at the doors. Jon runs past them all, ignoring odd glances and raised eyebrows.

The castle itself is almost as deserted as the grounds, not a single person conducting business in the decadent halls aside from the usual knights stationed at every other corner.

He grabs one of them, “Where is the queen?”

The man behind the helmet jumps at the grasp, surprised at the contact, “I am unaware of Her Majesty’s whereabouts.”

Jon growls and shoves him away with unnecessary force, ignoring his indignant shout as he dashes off down the halls. He makes his way to the queen’s quarters, the meeting room, the dining hall, the throne room, even checking his own quarters for Martin on the way. There’s nobody to be found. The sweat coating his skin runs cold as he notes the similarities between his current situation and the first dream he’d had. The one where Michael had fallen in the knight’s arms, room ablaze as his lover screamed in agony and loss.

He runs to the prince’s room, sprinting past guards that shout at him to conduct himself appropriately until he skids to a halt in front of Michael’s chamber doors. He hopes that everything is alright. He hopes that in his absence they’ve all sorted it out, put aside their differences and emotions and realised that nobody’s done or is planning to do anything despicable. The knight stationed directly outside Michael’s room does not inspire confidence in that theory.

“Is Michael in there?” Jon asks.

“Yes, of course, he’s being hel-.”

“Let him out,” Jon says.

“I can’t do that, Sir, the queen, she-,” the knight says, standing fast in his position and scowling at this dirty, haggard traveller in front of him.

“Then let me in.”

“I can’t, I-.”

Jon slaps the man across the face, feels his veins alight with something he’s never felt before as he repeats, “Let me in.”

The man’s eyes blow wide, and his chin wobbles a little as he fumbles for a ring of keys at his side. If Jon weren’t so hell-bent on getting Michael out of that room, finding where the queen is, saving Gerry, he’d notice that the knight is young, and almost on the verge of tears as he unlocks the door with a glassy stare. Jon’s never had that effect on someone before, and he does not want to repeat it.

The door swings open and bumps into something lying on the floor. For a moment Jon thinks it’s Michael, and he calls his name before he realises it’s just a tray of food skittering across the tiles at the impact. There’s no answer, and Jon pushes in. 

The room is empty, and the only thing of note besides the ransacked desk and vanity is the shattered window pane and cloak billowing in the breeze where it lies over the jagged shards. Another similarity to the dream. Things didn’t work out, then.

Jon turns back out of the room, runs past where the guard is shaking his head free of whatever influence Jon had just poured into him. Nothing’s happening in the castle. A chill runs through Jon as he realises the most probable place everyone might be gathered once they have a traitor to the Crown in custody. The private courtyards. Where executions are held.

The seer makes his way there, taking each set of stairs three steps at a time. The ache in his body has faded to a dull background hum as adrenaline takes over. He skids through the main courtyard, past the stables and out into the gardens. He dodges around the bushes and trees around to the back of the castle, where he knows a grizzly stone courtyard stands vacant against a backdrop of the surrounding vine-split walls of the castle perimeter.

As he gets closer, he encounters more and more people. Fuck, why did he have to be right about this? There’s a low murmuring that gets louder as he nears the crowd, a buzz of excitement for what they’re about to witness; what they believe to be justice. Jon is fuelled by a burst of equal parts relief and fear at the knowledge that nothing has happened yet.

At last, he pushes far enough to see the stage, the block on which a neck is laid and a head severed. To one side stands the queen, face set, eyes dark with scathing retribution. On the other side is a tall man in a mask, arms crossed over the heavy, shining blade propped against his side.

Jon tries to shout at the queen to stop, but the din of the crowd pulls the sound down into it, his cry reaching no one.

The queen raises her hand to the side, and the crowd hushes as someone is led onto the stage, a hooded figure that stumbles and trips up the rough steps, a familiar shape that is shoved down and forced to kneel before the block.

“No…” Jon whispers in horror. He surges forward with renewed strength, and muscles past a few more people before the hood is removed, and the traitor is revealed.

Gerry’s face is streaked with tears and dirt alike, and Jon would weep at the sight of his friend if he had the time. Gerry struggles against the two men holding him down, teeth gritted as he tries to lash out with bound feet and hands. The crowd starts up again with jeering shouts and screeched insults. He is held down against the block, and Jon watches as his shoulders slump, then tremble. Oh gods, he isn’t going to make it. 

Jon looks ahead of him, finds that he is so close to the front, surges forward. Desperate.

Then a few things happen at once. The queen brings her hand down in a swift arc. The executioner hauls his blade into the air. Jon pushes to the front and draws in a breath to shout. Someone beats him to it.

Michael’s voice is strong and unbroken as he screams his command across the stage. He’s met with gasps and whispers, as the prince, mysteriously bloodied and dirtied almost beyond recognition, emerges from the garden. The queen looks over with a stern expression, sharpened with a touch of regret. But the blade is already falling. And Michael is running; never even slowed. 

“Michael!” Jon shouts. 

All he receives is a wordless battle cry as Michael charges for the executioner. There’s an array of screams as he goes. Then all at once, he has his thin hands on the handle of the axe, arms braced against the momentum of the swing, and there’s a spray of blood loosed upon the rough stone as the blade buries itself in his shoulder and carves down through his chest.

The crowd erupts, but the only thing that Jon can hear is that cry from his dream. The same anguished scream ripped from the knight’s chest as Michael falls into a bloody pool before him.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon: o no I need to hurry back and undo my terrible mistakes!  
> Also Jon: *has an hour-long gossip sesh with a witch*
> 
> thanks for reading! comments are appreciated ;0


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it all comes to an end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg you made it congrats! Thank you all for all your lovely comments and kudos, they mean so much to me. I'm really proud of this story, and Ive had a blast writing it, so thanks for reading along!  
> Theres a short explicit scene in this chapter that will be marked out with a '#' at the beginning and '##' at the end, as always.
> 
> content warnings: injury descriptions.
> 
> Enjoy ;3

_Tap tap tap. Plink. Pop. Tap tap clink. Clink clink. Crunch. Tap tap._

Michael wakes to an unfamiliar noise battering at his ears as a groan wiggles its way from his stiff lungs, through ribs that ache and creak like old floorboards and past a throat that grates and scratches. The bed he’s in is softer than any he’s laid upon over the last few weeks, the fine cotton sheets cradling the tender soreness that is his body as he tries in vain to roll over. A hot, fizzling pain burns along his chest and shoulder, pulling his skin taut over ripped muscle and cracked bone as he gets an elbow under him to sit up.

“Oh, hey now, take it easy, love,” there’s a hand on his shoulder in an instant, firm and warm. Michael looks to find it attached to Ingrid, another plump hand extending a pitcher of water to his mouth. Michael drinks with shaky lips and lets the cool slide of water down his throat clean the sleepy fog from his mind.

For a flash of a second, Michael remembers, and jerks, a reflex far too late, hours, days, who knows. The glass rattles as Michael pitches away from it, and a healthy sum of water splashes down his chest, soaking through the bandage there. He coughs, and his lungs scream at the aggravation.

“Gerry?” he splutters, closes his eyes against the feel of the blade cleaving through his sweating skin. He’d stopped it. Or at least, he’d stopped it initially. He prays he’s wrought enough mayhem to keep their attention from the knight.

Ingrid’s brows dig a deep groove in her smooth round face as she averts her gaze to a man by the window. “Leave it, won’t you? Go find Jon,” she says, and a young man, a carpenter of sorts, looks up in acknowledgement, leans a fresh pane of glass against the window he’d been fixing, and exits the room.

“Did something happen to Gerry?” Michael rasps, ducking his head, ignoring the painful pull of his wound, the uncomfortable chafing of a now-wet bandage, trying to catch her eye, find the truth.

Ingrid shakes her head, but it isn’t quite in denial, and she doesn’t look at him. “It isn’t time to be worrying about that, Your Highness,” she says, “You need rest.”

“Fuck no, I can’t be resting, I have to- _ah_ ,” Michael starts pushing hard into the mattress, trying to sit, pivoting in just the wrong way so that the wound rips again and the bandages are now wet with a slurry of blood and water.

“I’m sorry, Your Highness,” Ingrid hisses in sympathy, easing Michael back down to the bed, “You know I wouldn’t keep you here if it wasn’t important. Look, you can barely sit up.”

The pain in his chest throbs back down to a dull ache once the frightening reality of the weeping gash there has sunk in, and Michael allows himself to be helped. The mellow drone of her harried voice cuts off at the creak of the door opening. Michael doesn’t hesitate to turn his gaze to whoever may be calling, and his chest aches in a whole different manner when he sees the familiar lines of Jon’s pinched face. 

“Michael,” Jon says, face cracking into something aching and relieved, unbearable and genuine. He comes forward, dropping down into a chair beside the bed as Ingrid squeezes his shoulder on her way out. “I came as soon as I was able, I’m so sorry. Everything’s been chaos.”

Michael doesn’t respond, stares at the pane of glass propped against his window, watches it swim as his eyes well unbidden with tears. It’s light out. Michael would guess it to be just past midday. “How long have I…?”

Jon sighs and closes his eyes to the sound of Michael’s shaking voice. “Just a day. Or night, I should say. I came to see you. I came last night, but you were asleep, and I didn’t want to disturb you, but. All that happened… it happened yesterday.”

The prince blows a breath out through tight lips, trying to gain some semblance of control over his life. Even if it’s just of his own body- it’s something. “What… what happened? Sorry, I’m a little, uh, dazed, I guess, I can’t quite- just… tell me what’s going on, won’t you?” He turns to the man beside him. His best friend. His brother. And he remembers something- Gerry’s bloodied face, teeth gritted as he thrashes about like a caged animal in the grasp of the queen’s men, Michael’s arms trapped by his friend, words in his ear, slick and insidious, telling him this was Jon’s doing.

“Let me explain,” Jon starts, thin dark hands coming up to grip and twist in the sheets, guilt lacing his voice, confirming what Michael remembers, “I… You got hurt, and-.”

“Jon,” Michael whispers, seeing Gerry’s dirt-streaked face shoved down against that stained block of limestone, seeing his neck made a target, and the flash of the blade arcing up as his mother’s hand swung down. “What did you do?”

“I’m sorry!” Jon says, desperate as his hands clench harder in front of him, “I made a mistake, I know. I really thought I saw him planning to hurt you! For a moment I knew you were in danger, so vividly I imagined you die, I didn’t stop to think before I told her. This is all just a terrible bloody misunderstanding, and I’m _so_ sorry.”

Michael twists his lips together, keeping the tears at bay by the thinnest of dams. He remembers the rough wood of the axe handle scraping against his palms, his fingers, feels the phantom bite of steel into his skin, hears a bloody scream when all he could see was the greying edges of a red-stained sky. “Just, uh, just tell me he’s alive. Tell me I got there in time.”

“Yes. He’s alive. No one quite had time to chop any heads off when the crown prince was bleeding ou-.”

“Jon.”

“Sorry. Yes, Gerry is alive. He’s in jail. I haven’t quite been able to convince Winona to let him be yet, she doesn’t think we should risk it. We’ll get him out, though. Don’t worry.”

The visceral relief of hearing ‘Gerry’ and ‘alive’ in the same sentence morphs and twists into something ugly and angry that Michael can’t quite rein in in time. “Oh, so you’ve changed your mind, have you? He’s not the source of all evil?” Michael spits.

Jon drops his head for a moment, and Michael’s anger is quelled only by the shuddering gasp he hears squeeze out of the other man. “I’m sorry, Michael. I really am, and I don’t know how to convince you of it. I know the truth now, though. More truth than I was looking for,” he wipes at his eyes and huffs a laugh, but it’s devoid of humour, “That is to say, I went to see the witch.”

Michael frowns, and looks closer at Jon, studies his wet eyes and tight lips. He shakes his head, at a loss, “Witch?” 

Jon frowns back, then his eyebrows disappear into his hairline, and his gaze darts around the room, fixing anywhere but on Michael, “Uh, I thought you’d know, um… Did you, um, do you know about…? Uh, hm, I don’t know how to say this, uh.” 

Michael watches him flounder for a moment, taking a small vindictive slice of pleasure in his discomfort before berating himself for feeling that way about his best fucking friend. “Just spit it out, Jon.”

“Have you, uh…?” Jon grimaces, “Did you and Gerry ever, hm, uh, get close? Or um… intimate?”

“Jon, you perv!” Michael exclaims. He bites back a grin and turns his face to the other side of the room before uttering a quiet, “Yes. We got _intimate_.”

“So you know…?”

Michael turns back, makes an effort not to laugh at the uncomfortable blush on Jon’s face, “That he’s trans? Yes. Gods, Jon, just say it, you pussy. What does that have to do with a witch, anyway?” Michael smirks and lifts a weak fist to bump into Jon’s arm. Jon sighs and smiles back, but the expression drops when Michael says, accusing, “Wait, how do you know?”

“I didn’t mean to!” he defends, holding up his hands against another couple of punches, “I was just meditating when it came to me, he was looking suspicious, so I pushed a little, and-.”

“Jon! I knew you were using your powers for nefarious purposes, you little shit,” Michael says, grinning, “Don’t you ever spy on my boyfriend naked, again, you hear? Now what do you mean witch?” 

“I’ll explain if you would just let me speak, damn it!” Jon exclaims.

Michael clamps his lips together and gives Jon a wide-eyed look that roughly translates to ‘well, go on, then.’

“Okay,” Jon says, side-eyes Michael for a second to gauge the likelihood of being interrupted, “It was when he was assigned to you. I saw him walking to your chambers, I heard his thoughts, and they were full of deceit, and I thought perhaps I’d made a mistake, that he was a danger to you. So I pushed, and I saw him making a deal with a witch, for the witch to change his body. I didn’t mean to, I swear, you know I can’t control what I see sometimes. But I didn’t see all of it. There was a part that was… broken, and I could only see fragments. The fragments that I saw… it made it look like he was planning something really, really terrible.”

Jon pauses, and Michael keeps his mouth dutifully shut, and waits for him to continue. “Michael, I don’t expect you to understand, I don’t fully understand why I did what I did, either. But the fear that took me when I thought we’d sent you away with your killer… it was inexplicable. So I told Winona. And you know how she reacts. But something still wasn’t right. So I tracked down the witch. And she told me everything. Things that I wasn’t even looking for. Things that are better left for another day, when you’re feeling better.”

“Is that all?” Michael asks.

Jon nods, “I’m sorry. I don’t know how to explain how fucking sorry I am. Just know that I’ll fix this. I’ll do whatever I can to make this better. I know how happy he made you.”

Michael nods, turns his face away as a fresh wave of tears cloud his vision, and flounders for Jon’s hand. When Jon catches him and holds tight, Michael tugs until he’s close enough to wrap his arms around and buries his face in his shoulder. “I missed you so much, Jon.”

“It was only a couple of weeks, Michael,” Jon says, chuckling a watery laugh into the prince’s hair. “But I missed you, too.”

Michael holds him close, ignoring the ragged sting beneath his bandages. He’d been planning to let this man go, forever. Gerry had proposed a new life, and Michael had taken it with no consideration. If he could do it all again, he would, but he’d cry every night for being without his best and closest friend.

“I was going to leave,” he admits in a quivering whisper.

“What?” Jon says, warm cheek pressed to Michael’s temple, hands gentle on his back. 

“Gerry was going to take me away from this. I wasn’t going to see you ever again. He was going to take me away because I wanted him to,” Michael gets out between shuddering gasps.

Michael feels Jon still against him, and his voice is quieter when he responds, “Is that what you were going to tell me the night you left? Is that why you told me to come find you?”

Michael nods against the dampening fabric of Jon’s shirt.

“What do you mean ‘take you away’? Where? Why?” Jon urges, gently confused, strained just enough to hear.

Michael takes in a great breath to steel himself to tell Jon everything. How he hates it here. How he can’t stand his duties. How this life was never meant for him. How he’d planned for months to get away, terrified of being stopped, enough that secrecy was absolute in its necessity. The breath does no such thing, instead fuelling a torrential bout of tears that Michael has to swim and hiccup his way through to tell Jon the truth. 

“You should have told me,” Jon whispers, rocking them both back and forth as Michael clings to him. “I’m so sorry I didn’t know. I’m so sorry you feel that way.”

Michael pulls away, heaves a big bubbling sniff through his nose. His eyelids scratch against the salt and wetness of his eyes as he blinks up at Jon, “No, it’s my fault. I should have trusted you, I should have confided in you, it’s my fault, I-.”

“Michael, Michael, hey,” Jon says, taking Michael’s face in his hands, “None of that, alright. We don’t want you hurting yourself anymore, okay?”

Michael nods.

“You know I love you, right?” Jon says.

Michael nods again, throat still tight, “I love you, too.” 

“Good. And I know you didn’t trust me before, but you can trust me now, okay? I’m going to fix this. All of this. I’ll make everything better if you just trust me. You don’t even have to forgive me, I know what I did was stupid and terrible. I just need your trust, and your love, and I’ll make everything okay. Is that alright?”

“Yes,” Michael squeaks and dissolves into sobs against Jon’s shoulder again. “Jon, I’m so tired.”

“I know. Get some sleep. When you wake up, everything will be just as you want it.”

So Michael lets the sound of Jon breathing, the warmth of his fingers carding through his hair, soothe the ache in his chest and lull him back to sleep. 

*

When Jon extricates himself from Michael’s sleeping grasp, resistant and clinging like barnacles, and exits his chambers, Winona is waiting outside. She steps toward the door as he closes it behind him, reaching out a pale hand to grasp the knob. In a moment of pure reflex and protective instinct, Jon grabs her wrist.

Winona’s expression isn’t quite as thunderous as Jon might have expected. Instead, it’s sad and… filled with an almost-understanding. “He’s sleeping,” Jon explains. 

The moment doesn’t last, and the queen’s face soon turns hard as she retracts her hand and holds the seized wrist in her own. “I appreciate all you’ve done for him, Jonathan. I do, and don’t you mistake that. But right now, I would like to see my son.” 

Jon shuffles further in the way of the door. “About that. I learnt a great many things while I was away, and I think we should talk about some of them.”

She scoffs, but her eyes are distant, a creeping fog of worry clouding the warm brown of her eyes, so different from Michael’s grey. Jon can’t fathom why he never stopped to consider the difference of King Phillip’s- blue as the boundless skies. “Don’t be ridiculous, Jon. Nothing could be more important than seeing my son.”

“Hilltop Orphanage,” Jon says.

Winona’s hand stutters to a sharp halt; freezes where it hangs suspended over the brass knob. “What did you say?”

“So you know it?” Jon asks, raising an eyebrow. He thinks he’s doing a remarkable job of keeping his cool, in the given circumstances. That doesn’t change the fact that he’s sweating rivers under his tunic. There’s just about no end to what he’ll put himself through for Michael.

Winona grinds her teeth. Any harder and it’d be audible. Then she sighs, and extends the hand down the hall, “Come on. I might as well explain myself. Preferably somewhere a little more private.” She doesn’t wait for an answer before she’s sweeping off down the hall, expression unchanged.

They take residence in the meeting room, the large table somehow too small for the enormity of the conversation ahead. At one end, Winona taps her fingers against the marbled surface as she decides how to broach the subject. Jon sits as if he has all the time in the world. He doesn’t, but maybe this conversation hinges on pretending.

“What do you know?” she asks, after retrieving two glasses, a sizable sum of whiskey swirling around in each.

“I know you lost Helen when she was three. I know you were so broken by it, by the lack of an heir, that you sought Hilltop Orphanage for a son who bore resemblance to Phillip. I know Michael is not of royal blood, and never has been,” Jon’s voice is clear and unburdened. It feels good to unload after so long, arms aching as he stacks it all on the table between them.

“I love him like my own,” Winona hisses, knuckles white around the crystal glass, the amber liquid sloshing as she leans forward, “He _is_ my own. And I loved her, too. I miss her with every breath that I take, okay? I never intended it to look… to look like a replacement. Because it wasn’t. It _wasn’t_.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Jon says. “Never have. I only meant that perhaps keeping it a secret was a… an odd choice.”

She shakes her head, brow furrowing, “You don’t understand. I had to conceal it. There was no other choice. If he knew where he came from, he might want to return there, leave here. Leave _me_. I couldn’t risk it. No one could know. And I thought you vowed to stay out of my head, Jon,” she says, that familiar reprimanding tone creeping back into her voice.

Jon chuckles at the reasoning. It is the second time he’s heard it, after all. “I never looked into your mind, Your Highness. And it’s funny: Annabelle said almost the exact same thing.”

Winona’s face slackens in shock, smoothing over as she leans back. “You spoke to her.”

“Yes. I, at first, believed she was the origin of the threat against Michael. And you know, it didn’t work.” 

“What didn’t work?” She asks.

“Keeping him from that life. Thinking he wouldn’t want to leave if he was none the wiser. May I be frank, Winona?”

Her jaw tightens at the informal use of her name. Jon smiles, tired and a touch sardonic, “Your son is my best friend. He’s like a brother to me, and I love him dearly. And I’ve been here since I was young, I suppose I… can’t help but see you as a mother figure as well. But you’re also a wonderful friend to me, and to Martin. It’s strange, but I love you all like family.”

The queen directs a smile down at her glass. Though sad, it reaches her eyes.

“So allow me to be forthright. Michael hates it here.”

Her head shoots up at this, confusion evident in her face as she opens her mouth to protest.

“He isn’t fit for the duties you’ve given him. He never has been, and quite honestly, I don’t think he ever will be- he’s at home in his gardens. We both love him, clearly, but by the _gods_ the boy cannot strategize for the life of him.”

She sighs and rubs her brow as she takes a nip of whiskey. “You’re right. I thought he’d grow into it, but he’s effectively useless.”

Jon leans forward, encouraged by her giving some ground. “Nothing that’s happening here is working for anyone. Gerard in chains. Michael hurt and trapped by his duties. We aren’t gaining anything from this. You need to let up, realise what’s good for the kingdom. What’s good for your family, your son.” 

She nods, but the expression on her face doesn’t change. “What would I do?”

Jon shrugs, “I don’t know. We’ll get there, though. Together. Whatever you need to do, I’m behind you, but I’m telling you, nothing good is coming of keeping that young knight in a cell. Nothing good is coming of trapping Michael into this life.”

She nods, hesitant at first, then decisive. “Okay. Okay,” she raises her voice, to be heard outside the door, “Sir Christoff, won’t you come in, please?”

It takes a second longer for the knight to come in than one would expect, and when he does, it’s with a bewildered, flustered expression quite uncharacteristic of the seasoned man. “Yes, Your Highness?”

“Give your set of keys to Jon,” she says, then turns back to the Seer. “Go fetch the young knight from the jails. Get him cleaned up. Who am I to keep an innocent in prison, or even to keep my son’s happiness from him?” she smiles, and it speaks of many sleepless nights, and the untold relief of relinquishing a small measure of control.

No sooner are the keys in Jon’s hand does the knight speak again, addressing the queen with a gruff sort of confusion. “Your Majesty. There’s someone here to see you. I’ve been trying to turn her away- you’ve been busy and she doesn’t have any clearance or permission to actually be in the castle, I’ve no idea how she got in. But… well, it’s hard to explain, but she’s… incredibly persuasive.”

The queen raises an eyebrow, looks to Jon for a brief moment of askance. Jon shakes his head and shrugs, downs an unhealthy amount of alcohol in one swallow as he stands. The queen turns back to Christoff. “Who is it?”

“One Annabelle Cane, Your Highness.”

“Oh,” Jon says, “That’s right. She told me to say ‘hello’ and that she wishes you all the best.”

Winona opens her mouth to respond, beginning to stand from her seat, as a voice pipes up from the doorway, low and rich as it had been in the outskirts of that desolate town. “Yes, ‘all the best.’ Seems my wish hasn’t quite come true, if you feel the need to drink quite that much.”

“Annabelle,” the queen inhales. “It’s… been a while.”

Annabelle laughs, amber eyes crinkling at the edges, “It certainly has. I’d love to catch up if you have the time. If you have the time… for me.”

Winona beams, disbelieving and oddly content, “Always. Please, take a seat.”

Jon pulls out the chair he’d been sitting in and follows Christoff to the door. He bows before exiting, telling Winona only, “Think it over,” before heading down to the jails.

*

Gerry is picking at the scabbed over circlets around his wrists when he hears footsteps approaching the cell. The bite of his nails sting, but he doesn’t care, not while Michael is probably dead, not while it’s all his fault.

Everything had moved so fast after that knock on their door in the northern stronghold. Gerry, shackled and thrown into the back of that cart, while Michael struggled to get to him. He’d been in that cart for seven days, festering in the dark with what little food and water they’d deemed inedible enough to spare for him. 

On occasion, he’d hear a shout carried to him on the wind. Through the slats in the port window, sometimes he’d swear it sounded like Michael.

The worst part is all the questions. Why had this happened? Was this Michael’s doing? Could this have all been a long con, carried out by a bored prince? Gerry doesn’t think so, but he’d spent seven days in rocking darkness, he’d been dragged into the near-blinding sun, laid against a bloodied brick, forced to await whatever comes After in front of a jeering crowd. It was all a bit stressful. So he doesn’t know if he could know anything, right now. He’s just… so tired.

But if Michael gave him up, for what reason, Gerry can’t fathom- unless his mother had been right all along- why would he throw himself under the blade for him? For that reason alone, Gerry thinks Michael must love him. Or loved him. Gerry had been pulled away far too quickly to see what transpired after Michael’s stunt, not that he would’ve been able to see through the tears in any case.

The bars of his cell rattle as someone steps up to them, the bitter clang of steel jarring Gerry’s ears as he turns away.

“Gerard?” says a familiar voice. He peers through his hair at the mouth of his cell, sees Jon. He blinks and lifts his head. The man looks tired; more so than Gerry’s ever seen him before. He’d almost feel bad for him if the itching of dirt against his bloodied skin and the gnawing acidic hunger in his gut wasn’t so much of a distraction.

There’s a clatter of keys, and the door swings open on squeaking hinges, the sound like so many needles in Gerry’s silence-steeped brain. “Gerry, I’m so sorry for all of this. I’ve made such a terrible mistake. But I’d like to make it up to you- both of you- if you’d just let me.”

Gerry shuffles back against the wall, the small slab of hay that one might generously call a bed rustling beneath him as he presses himself to the scratched stone. He can’t trust these people. He tried. For years he lived among them, perfectly safe in his secrecy. Then he allowed himself the smallest modicum of vulnerability and it landed him in prison. He can’t trust them.

Jon comes closer at the lack of response and crouches down with a wince tugging at his brows. “At least let me explain myself,” he says. “I know I don’t deserve it, but maybe you’d like to understand what happened.”

Gerry doesn’t answer, just tugs at his chains, and squeezes himself smaller.

“I saw your deal with the witch.”

“Fuck,” Gerry hisses. Of course this is why. His mum was right. Michael may have accepted him, but the world doesn’t. He should have known better.

“I saw part of it at least, and… I panicked. Because it looked like the price she’d asked of you was to assassinate the prince. I went to see her, Gerry. Annabelle. Turns out I was wrong. I jumped to conclusions. You were trying to save him.”

“You…” the word rasps out of his throat, and even Jon winces as Gerry clears it to continue, “You thought I was here to kill Michael?”

Jon nods and looks even a little embarrassed as he answers, “I did. It was a knee jerk reaction to something I didn’t understand, and I know it’s unforgiveable, but I want to make things right.” 

Gerry grimaces. This sounds an awful lot like he’s being let out. That can’t be right, though. They found out his secret, his mother was right, he’ll never see the light of day again.

“Annabelle told me… she told me that… well I don’t really know how to word this, and Michael just told me to stop being a pussy, so I might as well just say it, I-.”

“Michael’s alive?” Gerry asks.

“I-, uh, yes. Yes, thank the gods. He’s injured, but he’ll be okay,” Jon says.

Gerry releases a shuddering breath, lungs dispelling air that he hadn’t realised he was holding. “Good. C-can I see him?” 

“Of course, of course,” Jon says, “Would you like to get cleaned up, first? He’s probably still asleep. You should eat, too, I understand they haven’t been treating you very well. My fault, again.”

“Hold on,” Gerry says, shifting to look Jon in the eye, “are you… letting me go?”

“Yes! Yes, of course. Gerard, you’ve done nothing wrong. Nothing wrong at all. All this is my fault, none of this should have happened.”

Gerry doesn’t speak for a long moment, unsure whether or not to trust him. It’s likely a trap. He could be led out of here and straight into the arms of guards, waiting just outside to drag him back to the block. He tells Jon as much.

Jon purses his lips, “Your right not to trust me. I wouldn’t. But I can’t do anything for you unless you leave with me now. I certainly can’t understand wanting to stay here any longer.” He ends on a chuckle, the bad joke hanging awkwardly in the air, waiting for Gerry to respond.

“You’ll take me to Michael?” Gerry asks after a long moment of silence.

Jon eyes him over, “Might detour to a bathroom, but yes, I’ll take you to Michael. You were the first thing he asked about, you know.”

Gerry allows himself a sliver of relief and goes to stand. He’s tugged back down to the floor by the chains around his wrists and ankles. He staggers into an uncomfortable couch, mirroring Jon’s position. “Don’t suppose you’ve got a key in that ring for these, have you?”

“Oh, yes, uh, here,” Jon fumbles with the ring of keys, grasping a rusted old thing with his spindly fingers and shaking it into the locks. Gerry jumps at the feel of his hands on his wrists, hisses at the sting.

“We’ll get those wrapped up, too,” Jon says, gently removing the manacles.

“I just want to see Michael,” Gerry says, shaking his head with a hoarse, near inaudible whisper. “He got hurt because of me. He was trying to stop it, and he got hurt. It’s my fault.” 

Jon’s quiet for a moment as he tugs off the chains around Gerry’s ankles and helps him to stand. His back is stiff as he straightens, and there’s a cacophony of pops and clicks as he gets to his feet. “You really love him, don’t you?”

“I-,” Gerry shouldn’t divulge his secrets (even if they are really, incredibly obvious) to someone who betrayed both his and Michael’s trust so completely, so he can’t help but blush as the words come tumbling out anyway, “Yes, I do. No one’s ever been so good to me as he has. No one’s ever made me feel so accepted. I… I love him very much.”

They fall silent on the walk to Michael’s chamber from the dungeon-like jails below the castle, save for a few small ‘come on’s from Jon as Gerry hesitates in doorways, adjusting to the new levels of light and sound and movement as they climb their way out of the ground.

Gerry doesn’t hesitate to reach for the door when they stop in front of Michael’s chambers, but Jon catches his arm, mindful of his wrist, stopping him before he can get a handle. “Before you go in- I just wanted to say… I’m so sorry for not finding a way to tell you that you were okay here. I- I invaded your privacy, accidentally, when you were first assigned to Michael, I Saw that you weren’t born a man and that you were ashamed of that. I was so upset with myself for crossing that boundary that I couldn’t figure how to let you know- It’s okay to be yourself. I’m sorry you didn’t know that.” It all shudders out in a rush, and Jon doesn’t look at him.

Gerry feels his throat close over, ducking his head so the other man can’t see the tears gathering in his eyes.

“I won’t ask for your forgiveness. I know I don’t deserve it. But I’ll hope for it, nonetheless. Now go on, he’s waiting for you,” Jon says, gesturing to the door, avoiding Gerry’s eye and turning to leave.

Gerry catches his arm as he goes and pulls him into a hug that rattles his bones. Jon makes a short, surprised squeak before reciprocating with hesitant arms and a low, thin chuckle. “You have it. Michael’s alive and I’m free. That’s all I could ask for. Thank you, Jon.”

“Oh. Uh. Okay, um… okay. I’ll get you something clean to wear,” Jon says when Gerry pulls away. He gifts him a tight-lipped, watery smile before nodding, squeezing Gerry’s arm and marching off down the hall.

Gerry sets his fingertips against the door and lets it creak open, inhaling deep, closing his eyes as he goes. There’s a breeze when he enters, and the room smells like the candles Michael likes to burn when he hasn’t been outside in a few days. It’s warm, despite what feels like a window left ajar, and there’s nothing to be heard save for Gerry’s breathing and the flickering crackle of a low fire.

He cracks an eye open, terrified that he’ll be greeted by an empty bed and two guards waiting to seize his arms once more. Instead, he finds Michael laying in the bed, face turned away into the pillow. A soft gasp escapes Gerry’s lips before he realises he’s already made his way over.

Michael is clean and pale. Paler than Gerry’s ever seen him. Above the sheets, Gerry can see where he’s dressed in a plain white shift, partially obscuring a clean bandage. There’s a single spot of red there, and Gerry has a hard time taking his eyes away from it, drawn to it like a magnet. _My fault_ he thinks, and he lifts a hand to touch the prince’s cheek. His eyes are closed, and his chest rises slow and even. His hair isn’t as bright as Gerry seems to remember, but it’s the brightest thing he’s seen in days, and he aches to touch it.

Michael’s eyelids flutter just as Gerry is about to touch his face, and the knight is all at once too aware of how dirty he is; the blood and grime caked under his nails and the grooves of his hands, the whatever-it-might-be crusted onto his dirtied brown skin over the weeks. He withdraws his hand to leave the prince unstained, and after a long moment of watching his love sleep away his injuries, he turns around to head into the bathroom, collecting up the clothes Jon had dropped just inside the door.

The bathroom is clean and dry, untouched for days, except for the sink. He runs the tap and splashes his face with cold water. It stings but serves to snap him out of whatever reverie he’d entered gazing at Michael’s face. He strips out of his clothes, dirtied and bloodied beyond recognition, and soaks a cloth in the water, bringing it up to scrub over his scabbed lips and tired eyes. He dunks it back in, and the water turns brown.

“Shit,” he curses. He tries his best to clean off most of the grime, leaving muddy streaks on the floor, but he knows there’s still some left, lurking behind his ears and the spots on his back that he can’t reach. He hasn’t bathed since the hot springs, and his pits remind him of that fact.

He stares at himself in the mirror above the sink for a good long moment, taking in the aching bruises under his eyes and the dank grease of his hair. He looks beyond himself, sees the big tub in the centre of the room. Might as well let Michael sleep. Might as well get clean for him before he wakes up.

The bath fills quickly- quicker than Gerry had been expecting, and the water comes out as hot as he pleases. He takes a moment to let it run over him, rinsing out his hair and between his toes, watching the swirling red-brown disappear down the drain before he plugs it with a stopper and lets himself steep. He runs a thick soap under the water, watches it bubble up around him. The multi-coloured light from the stained glass window dances through the room and warbles under the water against his cleansed skin.

He slides down, submerging himself from head to toe, and feels the minuscule pockets of air trapped in the hair of his limbs form bubbles and skitter to the surface. He’s warm all around, but shivers when he feels his hair float by his shoulder and skim along his scrubbed raw skin. When he comes up, there’s a figure at the door. The door he’d made sure to close on his way in. 

“Michael,” he says on a gasp, “You should be sleeping.”

The blond shakes his head, a small smile on his lips as he releases his white-knuckled grip on the doorframe and makes his way over. 

“Careful,” Gerry starts, beginning to lift himself out of the water. It’s hard to stop himself from leaping toward him, wrapping him in his arms and raining a torrent of kisses on his face. There’s nothing he wants more at this moment than to feel Michael’s heart beating, the warmth of his hands in Gerry’s.

“No, it’s alright,” Michael says, gingerly setting himself down beside the tub, gripping the edge with his good arm. “How the tables have turned, huh?”

Gerry frowns, cocks his head as he picks up Michael’s hand and presses a kiss to it. “What do you mean?” 

Michael shuffles forward with a repressed grunt and strokes Gerry’s cheek. “Remember when you walked in on me having a bath?”

“Oh,” Gerry chuckles, “You mean when you coerced me in here to wash your back?”

“Exactly. Now I get to watch _you_ take a bath,” He says with a cheeky grin and a wink.

Gerry feels his face heat at his suggestive tone and looks down into the water.

“Just as well, you _are_ very grubby. What have they been doing to you?” He laughs a little as his thumb slides through a hidden patch of dirt under his jaw. Then he catches the gravity of his own words and sobers with a sigh. In a low, warbling tone he repeats, “What have they been doing to you?”

Gerry shakes his head, tries to dash away the question with a nervous laugh and avoidant gaze. “It’s fine. Jon came to get me, I’m here now. You’re here. You’re _alive_ ,” his voice breaks, still clutching onto the hand on his neck, “Michael, I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry?” Michael parrots, “What for?”

“I let this happen. I was supposed to protect you, it was my only job, and look what happened.” 

“ _Gerry_ ,” Michael says, taking him by the chin and shaking him gently, “You did nothing wrong, okay? I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you. It was my choice to run into the executioner’s blade, alright? Not yours. You did nothing wrong, love.”

“But you wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t get myself into that whole mess,” Gerry reasons.

Michael shakes his head. “You’re ridiculous. And I’m much too tired to argue with you about this. I did that because I love you, you beautiful idiot.”

Shock and warmth flood through Gerry’s chest with equal power, rendering him deaf and dumb until Michael gives him another little shake. “Y-you love me?”

Michael beams and his eyes crinkle at the edges as he bites at his lip. He looks incredibly fond, and Gerry’s heart swells to know that the look is directed at him, and him alone. “Of course I do. I lost my virginity in a hot spring for you.”

Gerry laughs, doesn’t realise a few tears slipped free until Michael wipes them away. “Kiss me, please, Your Highness.”

Michael obeys almost before Gerry’s finished speaking, leaning forward to press his lips against his, keeping a firm grip on his jaw as he tilts his head to deepen their embrace. Gerry follows his eager tongue wherever it cares to lead him, bringing tentative hands up to cup the prince’s jaw. Michael breaks away after a blissful moment and retracts his hands. Too quickly- he hisses in pain as he brings his arms down to the hem of his shirt, and Gerry’s hands dart out toward him, sending an arc of water across his shirt.

“Careful! Are you alright?” 

“Yeah. Yeah, just tender. Can you help me get this off?” Michael fiddles with his shirt.

“You’re not getting in; you’ll ruin you’re bandages.”

“No, I know, I just want my shirt off so you can touch me and not get it wet. Like you just did.”

“Alright, hold on,” Gerry tugs the shirt loose from where its tucked into Michael’s pants and operations it over his sore muscles and torn skin until Michael is bare in front of him. He takes a moment to admire the random splashes of freckles across the prince’s shoulders and arms before his gaze is drawn back to the bandages, and he opens his mouth to speak.

“Don’t even think about apologising again,” Michael says. Gerry looks back up at his soft, mirthful smile and returns it with wet eyes and trembling lips. 

“I just… I should have done more. Fought harder,” Gerry replies.

“And what- get yourself killed in the process? Then where would we be?”

“Fair point,” Gerry says, shrugging away the tense moment with a laugh.

“Honestly, love. What would I do if I lost you?” Michael’s hand is back on the rim of the bath, a delicate finger tracing the heated porcelain, keen grey eyes watching the movement. 

Gerry catches the hand and holds it in his own. “No point thinking about that. We’re alive, together. No one is actively trying to kill either of us. We’ve never had it so good.” 

Michael giggles and returns his fingers to Gerry’s jaw, drawing him close like a moth to flame so there’s only a hair’s breadth between their lips. “Since when are you an optimist?”

“What can I say? You inspire me, Michael.”

Michael’s face wavers on the edge of crumbling for a moment as his brows pinch together and he fends off a wobbling smile. He stretches the last millimetre to bring their mouths together, and Gerry sighs into it, revelling in the smell of Michael’s fragrant soaps and the feel of his fingertips twirling along his skin, down his neck and chest. Michael dips just under the water, drawing a shiver from the other man as he traces the mirrored scars below Gerry’s nipples. 

“Is this okay?” Michael asks against him, not breaking the kiss.

“Perfectly,” Gerry replies. 

#

Michael hums and brushes a thumb over the hardening nub of Gerry’s nipple, turning pleasant little shivers into bolts of arousal as he rolls it between his fingers. Gerry keeps Michael close, hands occupied with tracing the constellations of his skin and teasing into his twisting gold locks.

When Michael slips his fingers down past the trail of dark curls and traces Gerry’s wet folds, it’s met with a low whine that Michael drinks from his lips. “So beautiful,” the blond mutters, and sighs as he kisses Gerry deeper, sinking his tongue between his lips, curling against his own just as two fingers find Gerry’s clit.

Gerry grunts and squirms, chasing the friction of Michael’s clever hand between his legs. His fingers slide past his clit, probe into his cunt with short, gentle thrusts as his thumb comes up to replace them, rubbing over the hard erection. Gerry moans again, letting the heat of the water and soft pleasure of Michael’s hand and lips tug the sounds out of him as he ruts down against it. It’s hard to find purchase in the smooth porcelain tub, but Gerry follows Michael’s calm, steady pace and finds himself close to coming sooner than is strictly reasonable.

“Michael,” Gerry hisses against the prince’s cheek, “Michael, I’m close. I’m going to come.”

Michael leans past Gerry’s lips and tugs an earlobe into his mouth, sucking and nipping at the sensitive skin beneath before whispering into his ear, “Then come, Gerry.”

And Gerry does, gripping the edge of the tub hard as he fucks himself down onto Michael’s fingers, cunt squeezing around them as he spills over the blond’s soft skin and into the water. Michael fingers him through it, three slick digits sinking into him and crooking against the wonderful bundle of nerves inside him as his thumb presses hard into the man’s clit. When Gerry shudders to a stop, Michael slips out of him and squeezes his hip once before withdrawing the hand back into his lap.

Gerry buries his face into the crook of Michael’s shoulder, breathing hard into Michael’s sweat-dampened skin as he regains his composure. He trails a hand down Michael’s arm, across his stomach to the noticeable bulge in Michael’s loose trousers.

“No, no,” Michael whispers, carding a hand through Gerry’s hair, “Can’t take the strain at the moment, dear. This was all for you.”

##

“Is this a dream?” He asks, kissing Michael’s neck as he lifts his head.

“No. Though I’ve had many like it,” Michael smiles and strokes Gerry’s cheek with an adoring look in his eye.

Gerry grins, filled with a reverence that he never could have hoped to feel, and threads his fingers through Michael’s.

“Gerry?” Michael asks, and the knight almost misses it, so entranced in watching Michael’s eyes drift and wander over his face.

“Mm?”

“What I was going to tell you, before they took you away. It’s important to me that you know, but before I say anything, just know that I love you, okay?”

Gerry knows he should be wracked with worry at those words, a terror that this is where it all ends. But here in this shimmering bathroom, holding hands with the prettiest young man he’s ever laid eyes on, the indisputable love of his life, all he can feel is a thrumming sense of peace, calm and steady beneath his skin like the heartbeat of some great wise beast. “Okay?”

Michael hums, gaze darting about in that way Gerry knows signifies him trying to piece a complicated sentence together. “Well- you remember when you were first assigned to protect me?”

“Of course.”

“At first, um… at first, I was trying to seduce you so that you would maybe take me away from here, help me escape like I’d been planning. And I know it sounds bad, that I was willing to do that for my own gain, and it _is_ bad, I shouldn’t have done that, but- but, I fell in love with you. Somewhere along the way it was no longer about escaping, but instead, getting you to love me in return, because I had accidentally fallen for you. And I’m sorry, and I understand if you’re mad at me.” By the end, Michael is wiping away tears, and Gerry reaches over to stop him, using a thumb to brush along his cheekbone. 

“Hey, I’m not mad. How could I be mad that we found our way to each other? Even if it didn’t start how it ended up, few things ever do, you know? And besides, my reasons for protecting you weren’t exactly made of honesty, either.” There should be a rumbling in his gut, telling him to keep his secrets where they belong and never let them see the light of day. But there isn’t.

“What do you mean? Don’t tell me you have even more layers hidden under all that muscle?” Michael says with a laugh.

Gerry takes a deep breath, collecting his thoughts and memories into a stomachable order before he begins to tell Michael about the witch. About the price he’d agreed to pay to become a man. About training for years to get where he needed to be and shaping his life around this one goal. He watches, and finally, that familiar trepidation begins to seep back in as Michael’s face shifts from curiosity to confusion. 

“All this to change your body?” Michael asks, squeezing his hand.

“Well- like you, at first it was for that, then before I knew what was happening, I was protecting you because I wanted to keep you safe. Because I had fallen for you.”

Michael kisses their joined hands, “You flatter me,” and his smirk falls after a moment, “Wait- if you only became a knight to get to me, isn’t there something else you’d rather be doing?”

Gerry’s thumb stutters to a stop where it’d been running over Michael’s knuckles. “I- huh. You know, I’ve never really thought… about that. I admit, I can have a bit of a one-track mind when it comes to achieving a goal.” 

“You’ve _never_ thought about it? You mean you don’t spend all your free time daydreaming about being a florist like I do?” Michael asks with a grin.

Gerry chuckles, “No, though you’d make a wonderful florist, Michael.”

“Thanks,” Michael hums, kisses Gerry’s palm. “You should get out of that tub, babe. The water’s cold and your hands are starting to prune.”

The knight agrees with a chuckle and eases himself out of the bathtub, muscles beginning to ache in the cold water after days spent crouched in the back of a moving cart, shackled into an uncomfortable stoop. He towels himself off, mindful of the soft scabs circling his wrist and ankles as he dresses.

“Gerry?” Michael says, still sitting beside the tub.

“Yeah?”

“You know that you don’t need that witch, right?”

Gerry fixes the shirt sleeves up around his elbows and helps Michael to stand, slipping an arm around the tall blond’s waist and leading him out of the bathroom, “What do you mean I don’t need her?”

“You’re already a big strong, beautiful man,” Michael says, picking some gauze and ointment out of the bedside table, “In this body or another, nothing changes who you are. I mean, a lot of people go to witches for stuff like that, and you should to, if you want it, but I think you should understand. You don’t _need_ to. Not in the way that you think you do.”

Gerry nods, albeit with a frown on his face, “I… I don’t know what to think. I’ve just- I’ve spent so long in pursuit of this, it’s hard to accept that, that all of it could be for nothing.” 

“Not for nothing, darling,” Michael says, taking Gerry’s tender wrists into his lap and applying ointment to the angry welts and sores there, “Not for nothing. You went to a witch looking for something, and you had to do something for her to get it. People have done more for less. I’m just trying to say that… that you are a wonderful young man, and all that counts toward validating that is what’s inside.” He reaches over with a slight wince and places a hand against Gerry’s chest, right over his heart.

Gerry covers it with his own and tries to hide how much he’s trying not to cry, “Thank you, Michael. I- thanks.”

Michael pats his cheek, twice, and goes back to his work, “Also wouldn’t it be so fucking cool to be a witch?”

That surprises a laugh out of Gerry, “Yeah, I guess. You’d make a fine witch, Michael.”

“Wouldn’t I? Here watch this, I’ll do some magic- abracadabra,” he speaks down to Gerry’s wrist with a series of nonsensical words, covering the sores with his hands and wiggling his fingers. There’s a flow of warmth from the end of Gerry’s palm that streams up to his elbow, though they aren’t touching, and Gerry swears he sees some of the redness fade and the scabs flake. At the very least, the pain subsides into a dull itch.

“That- that actually feels a lot better,” Gerry says, flexing his fingers.

Michael rolls his eyes, “Shut up, I was being silly.”

“No, I know. It really, actually feels better, though. Less pain.”

“Probably some painkiller’s in the ointment, then,” Michael says, but his voice is a contemplative mumble as he finishes bandaging up Gerry’s wrists. He gestures for Gerry to shift, and the knight arranges his ankles into the other man’s grasp. “So it’s settled,” Michael says, “I’ll be a florist, and you can be… my butler?”

Gerry fights off a laugh and wrinkles his nose.

“No? We’ll just keep thinking, then.”

Gerry laughs and fiddles with the bandages. “Michael?”

“Yeah?” the blond looks up, and the light hits his face in such a way that Gerry feels like he might cry from seeing something so beautiful.

“I don’t know.”

Michael frowns, but the smile doesn’t leave. “That’s alright.” 

And it is.

*

Jon stretches until his back cracks once his feet hit the ground. The horse beside him whinnies and nudges against his arm until he finds a tree to tie her reins around. The cottage he stands in front of isn’t quite small, but it doesn’t even approach the opulence that he’s become accustomed to. Jon supposes he should be grateful that he might feel that way, for all the things that it implies.

He gathers his pack from the horse and begins the small trek through a beautifully twisting green garden up to the front door. It’s stone, the cottage, with a small chimney jutting up from the back, though it isn’t coughing smoke on this late spring afternoon. A majority of the walls are covered in flowering vines and churning leaves and Jon can’t help but feel a sense of right about it, knowing who lives here.

The door swings open just as Jon raises his fist to knock, and Jon only sees Michael’s beaming face for a half-second before the young man is tugging him in by the arm and squeezing the Seer against him. “Don’t bother, I was watching you walk up from the window.”

“Of course you were,” Jon says, returning the hug.

Michael pulls back and takes Jon’s face in his hands, gaze darting between Jon’s tired eyes, “It’s been so long.”

“Shut up, it’s been two weeks. Have you settled in well?” Jon asks, patting Michael’s hands before dropping his to his pack, swinging it around so he can rummage inside. “Got you something.”

“Oh, a present?” Michael asks, watching and clapping eagerly as Jon pulls a package from his bag.

“Yep. For the both of you, so don’t you eat all of them,” he says as he hands it over.

“Okay, okay,” Michael says, taking Jon by the wrist and pulling out of the doorway and down a short hallway, through an arch into a modest kitchen, a warm breeze blowing in through the open window. “Take a seat, let me find Gerry.”

Jon takes a seat at a small round table that Michael sets the package on and watches him leave the room at a light jog, calling the former knight’s name as he goes. The room is just about as green as it could be, several small pots hanging from the ceiling, tiny green leaves spilling from them. A couple of vines crawl in through the open window and wind around the curtains there. It’s lovely, and Jon finds himself adjusting to the idea of a quaint lifestyle such as this, if only for a couple of days.

“Jon got us a present,” the seer hears from down the hall, then Michael is tugging Gerry into the room by their entwined hands and pushing him into a seat across from Jon, planting a kiss in his dark hair before putting a kettle on.

“Hey, Jon,” Gerry says, “How’ve you been?”

“Busy. Lot’s of adjustments around the castle with Michael gone. Not bad busy, just… lots going on. Everything’s working out, though,” Jon says. Gerry listens as he speaks, quiet as he always is, brown eyes kind though he isn’t exactly smiling. His hair is longer than when Jon had last seen it, hanging far past his shoulders now. He turns his head to watch Michael at the stove and tucks it behind his ear, revealing several new rings stuck through the shell of it. “Those are new?”

Gerry turns back and raises an eyebrow, “Wh-? Oh, yeah. I had Annabelle do them right before we left. Michael wanted to do it for me, but you know how he is with sharp and/or hot objects.”

As if to prove it, they hear a shrill, “Ow!” from the stove, followed by, “I’m alright, kettle’s just hot.”

“He’s still getting used to boiling water with his magic stuff instead of fire,” Gerry explains with a wry grin. “Still a little hard to believe, even when I’m seeing it first-hand.”

“Yeah,” Jon says with a laugh. “Speaking of… did you talk with Annabelle about anything else? I know she had a lot to say to you when I first found her.”

Gerry frowns, drawing the package toward him and fiddling with the string, not pulling, “Yeah. I’ve been thinking about what she said, what she wanted me to learn all those years ago. Also what you said to me, before, and what Michael told me after, after, um…” 

“Yeah, after…”

Gerry nods, more decisive, “Yeah. I’ve been thinking. And I’m still thinking. I think I’ll be thinking for a while, because there was a lot of… stuff… that I thought, that turned out to be wrong, and I just, uh, gotta let the new stuff take root, you know? I’m… I’m trying.”

Jon hums, watches him pluck at the string some more. “That’s for you, you know.”

Gerry looks up, “For Us? Or me?”

Jon leans forward and lowers his voice to a conspiratorial hum, “Well, I got it more for you, because I know you’ve never tried it before, but don’t tell Michael that.”

“What? Heard my name?” Michael says, arranging some mugs on a tray.

“No you didn’t,” Jon says, at the same time Gerry says with a laugh, “Butt out, love.” They share a laugh, and Jon gestures down to the package as Michael takes a seat and passes out mugs of steaming, floral tea.

Gerry unwinds the twine and pulls the brown paper apart. Inside is a white card box, which Gerry opens. “Chocolates?”

Michael gasps and presses himself up over Gerry’s shoulder, jostling the other’s tea and spilling a drop across the table, “The chocolates that Ingrid makes? Gerry, give.”

“No!” Gerry says, pulling the box toward him and putting a hand over the top, “Jon said they’re for me!”

“Jon!” Michael exclaims, turning to the seer with a face the picture of betrayal.

“I told you not to tell him that,” Jon hisses at Gerry.

Gerry shrugs and glares at Michael for a second, before he breaks into a grin and hands the blond a chocolate, taking another for himself with curious fingers. Michael wastes no time in shoving the whole thing into his mouth, while Gerry inspects his own intricately marbled button of chocolate.

“Anyway,” Michael says, mouth gummed up with caramel filling, “what’s the castle gossip? I can’t believe I didn’t take into account that I would miss all the gossip!”

“I think you mean official Crown business.”

“No I definitely meant juicy rumours and scandalous trysts.”

Jon rolls his eyes and suppresses a smile. “Well. There are a couple things, actually. Winona announced her successor. Finally.”

The others lean forward and say almost in unison, “And?”

“And what? We all knew it was going to be Martin.”

Gerry and Michael cheer, the latter throwing his hands up and narrowly missing his cup of tea in the process, “Finally! Oh, I’m so proud of him. Jon you have to tell him.” 

“You know he had the gall to be surprised, like he wasn’t expecting it.”

Gerry scrunches his face up, handing another chocolate to Michael, “How? Everyone knows he was the most fit for the job. Miles more qualified than this ditz.”

“Hey,” Michael pouts, taking the treat.

“That’s not all, actually,” Jon says.

“Yeah? What, what?” Michael asks.

“Oh, I don’t know if I should say,” Jon says coyly, turning away and pretending to think. 

“Oh, don’t be like that,” Michael says, pouting again and leaning against his boyfriend. Gerry pats his hand.

“Okay, okay,” Jon says, and leans forward, cupping a hand around his mouth. “Winona and Annabelle got together.”

Michael’s eyes go wide as he looks between the other two in shock. Gerry returns the expression. “Michael, your mums hooked up!”

Michael’s face does a strange thing where it shifts between confusion and surprise and delight and mild disgust. “Don’t talk about my mums that way, Gerry.”

“It’s true, though!”

Michael scowls at him and turns to Jon, propping his chin upon his hand, “Wow. Can you believe that? Queen Mum and Witch Mum are together. A Mum unit. That’s really nice. Are they happy?”

Jon nods, “Seem like it. Everyone’s been seeing that coming, too.” 

They continue talking like that, through preparing and eating dinner, until the sun has long since set and Michael shows Jon to the guest room; clean, modest, and comfortable. The night drifts by uneventful until Jon has a dream that has him sitting up in bed and clutching his temples. After a few moments, he can’t remember it, the clawing woke-up-in-the-middle-of-the-night thirst a thorough distraction. He gets up, ignoring the creaking of wood and heads to the kitchen, pausing just before the doorway as he hears a sound.

He peers around the doorframe and finds the kitchen empty save for a cat, batting at a pot plant in the corner of the room. Jon huffs a sigh of relief and enters, hunting around for a glass and a pitcher of water. There are no candles, but the windows are still open, and a thick slab of moonlight sits bright and heavy on the stone floor as he drinks from his cup.

The cat jumps up to the window, stretching and waving its tail as it looks at Jon. Jon watches back and reaches a hand out to stroke its head. The cat lets him, butting into his hand before turning away and looking out across the garden. Jon follows its gaze and catches sight of movement.

At first, it gets Jon’s hackles raised, until he recognises a familiar head of blond hair. Michael is in the garden, looking up at the clear night sky, and Gerry is beside him, dark hair blending into the deep green of the shadowed garden. They’re sitting on the edge of a small fountain in the back yard, and Michael is leaning his head on top of Gerry’s. 

Jon watches for a moment, wondering why they’re out in the garden at midnight, but then dismisses it; Michael’s always been a little odd, Gerry too. If they want to spend a mild night together watching the stars, who is Jon to stop them.

Michael turns to Gerry at that moment, the arm around the shorter man’s waist coming up to tuck the former knight’s hair behind his ear and cup his jaw. Gerry smiles up at him, and it’s the most peaceful thing that Jon’s ever seen. They kiss, and Jon can hear Michael giggling into it, drawing a crinkle-eyed grin from both of them.

Jon finishes his water and goes back to bed.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this started as "princemichael forbidden bathtime" in my notes app, now we here. cant thank you guys enough for reading as far as you have! feel free to leave comments :0 or come yell at me on tumblr @theroswellcrashsite ;w;


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